301C 


The  Contessa's  Sister 


The 
Contessa's  Sister 

A  NOVEL 
By  Gardner  Teall 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MlFFLIN    COMPANY 

re?£  Cambri&ge 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,   igil,  BY  GARDNER  TKALL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  March  IQII 


To  My  Mother 

That  my  beautiful  island 
may  be  hers  likewise 


2138567 


hiy  Musis,  et  pauds  amicis 


The  Contessa's  Sister 


I  HAVE  come  down  into  my  little  garden 
to-day,  for  the  scorching  sun  has  been  merci- 
ful, no  longer  blazing  like  an  angry  topaz  in 
the  crown  of  Heaven.  Breasting  an  Italian 
summer  in  this  dauntless  fashion  of  my  own 
choosing  is  a  thing  I  would  have  smiled  at  a 
year  ago,  with  the  indulgent  superiority  of  the 
sure  schoolboy  who  feels  certain  of  everything 
he  has  learned  in  his  geography  until  Merope 
begrudgingly  lets  out  a  little  of  her  endless 
thread,  and  the  extremity  of  its  tethering  per- 
mits him  to  guess  the  futility  of  everything 
this  side  of  his  latest  horizon. 

Here  can  I  sit  in  the  vine-cast  shade  of  Vin- 
cenzo's  pet  pergola  —  and  hard,  indeed,  he 
worked  to  prove  himself  an  architect!  As  far 
to  the  south  as  I  can  see,  the  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean  are  like  an  endless  windwaft 
field  of  gentians.  To-morrow  everything  will 

i 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

be  like  the  blue  of  a  thousand  sapphires,  and 
the  day  after  that,  perhaps,  the  color  of  the 
Mary-flowers  growing  there  in  the  bosco,  high 
under  wicked  old  Barbarossa's  pirate  strong- 
hold, where  I  climbed  for  them  yesterday  at 
the  risk  of  my  neck,  that  I  might  have  a  hand- 
ful to  bring  home  with  me. 

Vincenzo  and  Luisa  laughed  at  me  for  my 
pains,  laughed  at  me  when  I  put  them  in  the 
vase  old  Morini  had  given  me  at  Murano, 
for  they  knew  what  I  have  come  to  learn,  — 
Mary-flowers  grieve  themselves  to  death  when 
torn  from  their  altitude,  and  sorrow  as  do  the 
little  flowers  that  nestle  on  the  Alps. 

But  I  am  always  finding  out  something,  now 
from  Vincenzo,  and  now  from  Luisa.  Indeed 
I  have  just  found  out  something,  for  I  have 
been  asking  questions  of  Vincenzo. 

"Ah,  signore  mio,  but  you  have  an  eye!" 
(I  do  not  deny  it.)  "It  is  the  very  lovely  Con- 
tessa's most  lovely  sister.  It  is  the  truth,  there 
is  not  another  of  such  bellezza,  such  goodness, 
and  such  kind-to-the-poorness  as  the  Con- 
tessa's sister.  She  is  a  saint,  the  most  sainted 
one  on  the  whole  island." 

2 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Now  I  like  the  way  in  which  Vincenzo  refers 
to  the  whole  island.  It  has  a  funny  little  fussy 
coast-line  like  the  pinking  on  Luisa's  sunbon- 
net.  The  whole  noble  number  of  its  inhabit- 
ants is  officially  set  down  by  a  census-taker, 
who  probably  has  n't  anything  else  to  do  but 
amuse  himself  by  expanding  arithmetic.  At 
least  he  has  made  so  goodly  a  showing  that  I 
am  incredulous.  It  may  have  taken  a  multi- 
tude to  keep  old  Tiberius  straight,  but  to-day 
we  are  a  very  orderly  community,  and  for  the 
life  of  me  I  cannot  see  where  the  census-taker 
found  his  population,  —  unless  he  counted  in 
Neptune  and  the  mermaids. 

However,  it  is  a  fiction  I  rejoice  in,  never  hav- 
ing any  love  for  crowded  areas,  or  any  patience 
for  those  noisy  persons  who  are  wont  to  dis- 
parage Malthus.  Even  one  square  mile  (to 
say  nothing  of  the  twelve  one  may  find  here  by 
searching  carefully)  may  often  hold  too  many 
representatives  of  humanity,  if  Providence  has 
been  careless  in  the  matter  of  selection.  Still  I 
do  not  hint  of  these  things,  either  to  Vincenzo 
or  to  Luisa,  —  I  would  not  hurt  their  feelings 
for  a  world  of  peaceful  vacuity,  if  only  that  I 

3 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

have  never  seen  two  more  clannish,  sociable 
souls  in'all  my  life.  Moreover,  since  yesterday, 
I  have  concluded  that  I  must  get  about  more. 
It  is  not  well  for  one  to  become  so  intoxicated 
with  his  new  surroundings,  and  the  perfect 
restfulness  of  it  all,  that  he  succumbs  to  the 
bitterness  of  the  far  niente,  which  should  al- 
ways be  sweetened,  instead,  with  thought  of 
the  affairs  of  others.  But  my  neighbors  will 
guess  what  a  lone  bachelor  has  on  his  hands  — 
unpacking  and  setting  up  housekeeping  within 
six  days'  space;  by  and  by  I  shall  become 
sociable  too.  Just  now  it  is  good  to  feel  that  I 
shall  not  go  far  away  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
—  that  I  can  sit  here  in  the  sun  and  dream 
all  the  dreams  I  long  to  dream,  with  no  one  to 
bother,  no  one  to  think  about  it. 

It  is  not  often  one  finds  a  little  house,  a  little 
garden,  a  little  island,  and  every  other  happy 
thing,  just  to  his  mind  in  a  little  world  that  he 
may  make  his  own.  But  the  very  moment  I 
looked  over  the  low  wall  that  separates  this 
little  heaven  in  my  new-found  paradise  from 
all  the  other  little  heavens,  I  knew  such  hap- 
piness was  to  be  mine.  That  is  why  I  waited 

4 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

two  long  months,  waited  with  the  sort  of  pa- 
tience that  plays  almost  a  havoc  of  rhapsodies 
on  the  strings  of  taut-strung  nerves,  fearful 
that  I  might  lose  all  that  I  had  come  to  hope 
should  be  mine,  —  an  inn,  as  it  were,  for  mine 
ease. 

First  came  an  interminable  bargain  with  the 
broken-down  Neapolitan  marchese  —  Heaven 
save  his  soul,  for  his  virtues  never  can !  I  doubt 
if  the  villain  had  ever  stepped  one  of  his  buff- 
gaitered,  pointed,  tan  boots  on  so  much  as  a 
flagstone  of  this  courtyard,  which  came  to  be 
his  through  the  marriage  settlement.  If  ever 
he  haggled  over  the  dowry  terms  as  he  bick- 
ered over  one  lira's  worth  of  difference  with 
me,  God  have  pity  on  the  poor  lady's  education 
in  matters  of  the  heart,  and  grant  that  her 
father  was  a  clever  financier!  Whether  or  not 
the  poor  lady  died  of  heartbreak  I  do  not  know 
for  a  certainty,  though  I  take  it  from  Luisa  as 
a  foregone  conclusion,  and  she  is  somewhat 
authoritative  on  such  matters.  However,  I  do 
know  that  the  dower  went  the  way  of  the 
wasteful,  and  that  the  signore  Marchese  found 
himself  forced  to  sell  his  villa  in  order  to  keep 

5 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

up  the  quality  of  the  wine  he  drank,  and  the 
quantity  of  friends  he  invited  to  help  him 
drink  it. 

Knowing  nothing  about  his  circumstances 
(caring  less,  so  long  as  I  might  have  the  villa), 
one  springtime  afternoon  found  us  all  sitting 
around  a  little  table  at  Gambrini's,  sipping 
coffee  as  black  as  the  Styx,  —  the  signore 
Awocato,  who  arranged  the  matter,  the  sig- 
nore Marchese,  who  now  and  then  threatened 
to  upset  it,  and  the  signore  Myself,  quivering 
with  hope.  Never  a  suspicion  had  I  that  the 
old  villain  was  down  to  the  very  last  soldo  in 
his  very  last  jeans.  The  whole  piazza  of  San 
Ferdinando  knew  it,  the  proprietor  knew  it, 
the  waiter  knew  it,  the  Awocato  knew  it,  but 
alas,  on  account  of  having  been  born  in  a  dem- 
ocratic country,  I  supposed  the  attention  he 
attracted  was  occasioned  by  the  position  in  life 
I  had  been  led  to  believe  the  Marchese  held. 
It  was  not  until  after  I  had  the  whole  story 
from  Vincenzo,  supplemented  by  Luisa's  in- 
valuable data  (she  had  known  the  poor  lady), 
that  I  realized  what  a  scamp  I  had  been  treat- 
ing with.  Therefore  I  took  another  trip  to 

6 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Naples  in  all  haste,  and  paid  another  visit  to 
another  advocate,  just  to  be  certain  that  every- 
thing was  all  right.  Miraculously  it  was.  So 
here  I  find  myself  in  a  little  haven  which  har- 
bors my  storm-tossed  ship  after  all,  and  I 
have  always  in  my  heart  the  song  of  the  island, 

Fide  'o  mare  quant1  I  bello  ! 

For  never  does  the  sea  seem  more  bright  and 
lovely  than  here  it  does,  —  never  before  did 
life  seem  so  worth  beginning  the  right  way  at 
last,  after  all  the  years  of  not  having  lived  at 
all. 

I  suppose,  that  first  day  when  I  took  the 
funicolare  up  the  hillside,  and  found  myself 
tumbled  out  on  the  village  piazza,  there 
lurked  within  me  a  mischievous  pleasure  at 
being  instantly  mistaken  for  a  prowling  fore- 
stiere  bent  on  a  square  meal  at  the  Quisisana, 
and  an  after-rush  for  the  Grotta  Azzura,  to 
depart  the  same  afternoon  by  the  little  vapo- 
retto  for  Sorrento  or  Naples,  whichever  place 
might  be  the  ultima  Thule  of  the  jaunting 
tourist,  who  prides  himself  on  having  done  so 
much  in  a  day.  Not  a  single  person  on  the 

7 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

little  piazza  guessed  that  in  me  he  beheld  the 
new  master  of  Villa  Giacinto,  over  there  on 
the  hillside,  always  just  showing  its  fair 
profile,  more  beautiful  than  any  Greek's,  and 
blessed  with  the  fairest  garden  on  the  Via 
Tragara. 

It  was  then  that  Vincenzo,  great,  strong, 
honest  Vincenzo,  rushed  up  with  a  hundred 
apologies  for  his  unworthiness  even  to  accept 
the  ready  forgiveness  of  his  indulgent  padrone. 
After  him  came  Luisa,  panting  explanations, 
—  the  chimney  had  been  smoking,  they  did 
not  dare  leave  until  they  investigated,  —  it 
was  nothing;  indeed,  Vincenzo  explained,  it 
had  been  their  careful  imaginations.  Luisa 
was  sure  of  it,  and  so,  to  the  amazement  of 
every  one,  I  departed  on  foot  through  the  arch 
of  the  market-place,  accompanied  by  the  clat- 
tering of  a  hundred  little  wooden  shoes  that 
kept  pace  with  the  curiosity  of  those  dear, 
crowding  bambini,  who,  when  I  turned  around 
to  smile  at  them,  shyly  whispered  "  Benve- 
nuto!"  —  "Welcome"  indeed!  And  I  had  to 
chide  Vincenzo  for  scolding  them,  but  he  took 
the  rebuke  patiently  enough,  showing  how 

8 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

early  he  appreciated  the  fact  that  I  might  have 
to  be  humored  now  and  then.  Luisa,  too,  was 
delighted. 

I  suppose  the  wind  which  now  brings  me 
the  savory  scent  of  all  the  things  that  are 
cooking  in  Luisa's  kitchen  reminds  me  again 
of  all  the  wonderful  dishes  she  placed  before 
my  undeserving  palate!  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  pranzo  of  that  evening.  It  solved  the  mys- 
tery of  Luisa's  delay,  and  those  oranges,  the 
secret  of  Vincenzo's  fritto  misto  —  mysterious 
fritter!  Where  in  all  Christendom,  or  in  Pa- 
gan land  either,  will  you  find  a  cook  like  your 
Caprese  cook,  a  dish  like  her  fritto  misto?  I 
gorged  myself  into  a  day's  illness,  but  Luisa 
has  never  guessed  it  —  it  would  have  broken 
her  heart.  So  I  laid  it  to  a  malady  as  mysteri- 
ous as  the  fritto  (of  the  imagination,  in  fact), 
but  ingeniously  convenient  for  another  time, 
either  to  excuse  gastronomic  indiscretion,  or 
to  escape  some  delicacy  like  certain  octopian 
condiments  which  once  I  unwittingly  devoured 
in  Venice,  and  which  have  remained  ghosts  to 
my  appetite  ever  since.  I  shall  never  forget. 
It  was  at  Florio's. 

9 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Quale  e  il  nome  di  questo  piatto  delicioso, 
Carlo?"  I  had  inquired  of  the  waiter. 

"Pesce  di  diabolo,  signore,"  he  answered, 
as  though  it  were  an  ordinary  matter,  "Octo- 
pus." And  with  a  rereading  of  Victor  Hugo 
fresh  in  mind  it  speaks  well  for  my  manners 
that  I  did  not  go  mad  on  the  spot.  However, 
I  do  not  think  Luisa  will  feed  me  with  octopi. 
As  a  precaution,  however,  I  shall  warn  her 
against  it. 

The  next  day  was  when  I  saw  the  Con- 
tessa's sister.  I  do  not  even  know  the  Con- 
tessa.  She,  too,  is  very  beautiful.  I  have  asked 
Luisa  about  them  both.  I  passed  their  palazzo 
on  my  way  to  the  post-office.  It  is  not  often 
that  the  great  gray  walls  of  a  palace  of  yester- 
day exhale  the  fragrance  of  to-day's  jasmine, 
but  they  did,  so  I  looked  up  just  in  time  to  see 
a  lady  (as  lovely  as  any  Raphael  knew)  at  the 
window  with  her  arms  billowed  in  oceans  of 
delicious  flowers,  which  she  and  the  other 
were  putting  in  vases  of  glass.  They  did  not 
look  down.  Luisa  says  it  is  well,  for  staring  up 
at  windows  is  not  a  custom  of  the  country.  As 
she  is  my  authority  on  insular  etiquette,  I 

10 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

stand  rebuked;  yet  feel  that  she  might,  after 
all,  give  me  a  little  more  time  to  become  ac- 
customed to  the  ways  of  the  land.  But  I  am 
glad  I  know  the  way  to  the  post-office.  I  shall 
go  myself  every  day. 

And  I  shall  always  find  letters.  There  al- 
ways are,  when  a  chap  without  a  penny  sud- 
denly finds  himself  overtaken  by  the  tidal 
wave  of  affluence,  blown  by  the  winds  of  a  pro- 
pitious legacy  from  some  forgotten  next  of  kin. 
It  is  surprising,  then,  how  quickly  the  news 
travels,  and  how  it  whets  the  edge  of  corre- 
spondence. You  suddenly  begin  to  hear  from 
people  who  have  been  forgetting  you  all  these 
struggling  years,  and  from  others  you  had 
been  forgetting.  You  will  have  had  no  idea 
that  so  many  dormant  memories  have  con- 
tinued to  be  hugely  interested  in  your  welfare. 
Some  even  refer  to  it  as  your  success,  though 
that  seems  a  bit  blunt  and  over-frank  in  associ- 
ating the  good  fortune  made  possible  by  the 
misfortune  that  carried  your  benefactor  hence 
from  this  sphere  of  surprises. 

However,  instead  of  any  pronounced  mis- 
givings, or  annoyance,  I  take  it  all  as  rather 

ii 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

amusing.  In  fact,  I  feel  friendly  toward  the 
whole  lot.  There  is  no  reason  they  should  have 
bothered  with  me  before,  anywav.  Even  my 
great-uncle  Rufus  did  n't.  Indeed,  I  myself 
had  come  quite  to  forget  there  was  any  such 
person  until  the  astonishing  news  I  received 
from  Suit,  his  lawyer. 

Sincerity?  Well,  you  are  so  much  a  man  of 
the  world  by  this  time  that  you  catch  yourself 
realizing  a  thing  or  two  about  the  little  black 
border  you  have  put  around  your  letter-paper, 
for  the  time  being,  and  if  it  is  a  token  of  re- 
spect to  the  memory  of  the  prosperous  de- 
parted one  whom  you  never  saw,  never  knew, 
and  never  loved,  a  pompous,  selfish,  wicked 
old  person  who  had  freighted  the  first  argosy 
of  his  fortunes  with  what  he  had  stolen  from 
your  grandfather,  it  is  also  a  token  of  the  joy  of 
knowing  where  your  next  meal  is  coming  from 
every  day  in  the  year  without  your  drudging 
for  it.  So  you  decide  if  ever  you  lift  the  covers 
of  your  board  to  the  letter-writers  who  have 
discovered  you,  they  will  find  your  platters  well 
laden  withfritto  misto,  not  dampened  with  the 
nothingness  of  sour  old  Timon's  recipe. 

12 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Indeed  you  rejoice  that,  at  last,  Life  has 
brought  the  full  charity  of  living  into  your 
soul.  You  suddenly  find  that  you  bear  no  man 
a  grudge. 

You  think  of  all  these  things  while  you  are 
busy  at  home  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
your  traps  that,  for  three  days,  have  been 
strewn  around  the  place  to  the  despair  of  Luisa, 
who  cannot  understand  your  dropping  every- 
thing, just  to  run  out  on  the  terrace,  every 
little  while,  for  a  look  at  the  sea,  and  cannot 
yet  understand  why  you  come  back  to  dance 
a  tarantella  with  yourself  through  the  very 
chaos  of  your  disorder.  She  is  pleased,  never- 
theless, and  so  is  Vincenzo.  To-day  they  both 
helped  to  fix  my  sleeping-chamber.  The  stuffy 
old  bed  has  been  taken  down,  and  a  hammock 
slung  in  its  place.  Vincenzo  is  all  for  the  ham- 
mock, but  Luisa  says  it  will  give  me  a  crooked 
back,  and  that  it  is  a  heathen  invention  of  the 
Evil  One,  who  ran  thefunicularup  the  hillside, 
doing  great  damage  to  the  orchard  of  Don 
Enrico. 

At  first  I  am  not  interested,  but  Luisa  drops 
a  hint  that  Don  Enrico  is  the  uncle  of  the  Con- 

13 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

tessa's  sister.  So,  with  a  Don  as  an  uncle,  I 
cannot  but  feel  that  the  saintship  of  the  niece 
is  hereditary,  and,  therefore,  a  matter  of  im- 
portance. Unworthy  as  I  know  I  am,  it  may 
happen,  some  lucky  day,  that  I  shall  find  my- 
self in  her  presence,  even  allowed  to  mix  with 
the  circle  of  sanctity,  and  so  I  force  myself  to 
become  interested. 

Anyway,  nothing  bothers  me  to-day.  June 
here  is  as  lovely  to  me  as  the  Januaries  with 
which  they  attempt  to  allure  travelers;  so, 
having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  have  come  down 
into  my  little  garden.  Overhead  the  turquoise 
skies  are  already  lending  their  cool  colorful- 
ness  to  the  sun  that  is  creeping  behind  San 
Michele,  and  the  breezes  that  have  begun  to 
stir  seem  to  breathe  the  breath  of  the  jasmine 
flower,  j 


II 


THERE  below  me  spread  the  waters  of  the 
sea,  stretching  forth  in  a  glossy  reach  from 
the  very  rocks  under  my  craggy  terrace  to  the 
African  coast.  I  can  only  guess  that  it  lies 
there,  far  beyond  all  vision.  From  my  pergola 
seat  I  look  down  on  a  ruined  old  monastery. 
Luisa  says  it  has  six  hundred  rooms,  thirty 
staircases,  three  subterranean  passages,  and 
two  centuries  of  ghostly  memories.  Anyway 
I  am  for  exploring  it,  though  Vincenzo,  with 
unsolicited  discretion,  tells  me  we  shall  have 
to  ask  the  signore  Capitano  of  the  carbinier! 
about  it  first,  which  is  rather  stupid  —  I  like 
to  pounce  down  on  ruins  all  by  myself. 

Though  Vincenzo  listens  respectfully  to  all 
my  enthusiasms,  he  pretends  dismay  at  this 
one,  and  while  admitting  the  possibility  of 
crawling  over  the  wall,  he  insists  that  any  such 
proceeding  would  be  disrespectful  to  the  sig- 
nore Capitano's  prerogative  of  holding  the  key 
to  the  gateway,  through  which  a  little  fee 

IS 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

("  such  a  little  fee,  signore,"  he  will  say)  will 
enable  the  less  privileged  to  pass  authorita- 
tively. Perhaps,  if  there  is  nothing  else  to  do, 
the  signore  Capitano  will  send  precious  near 
a  regiment  along  to  give  the  place  an  air  of 
being  inhabited,  and  as  I  shall  sit  there, 
puffing  a  cigarette  (with  utter  occidental  dis- 
regard for  the  prejudices  of  my  Salem  ances- 
tors), or  shall  concern  myself  with  the  curious 
well-curb  of  the  glorious  old  courtyard,  per- 
haps they  will  execute  manoeuvres  for  my  de- 
lectation and  denari,  or  solemnly  stand  guard 
over  the  thirty  staircases,  while  I  am  exploring 
the  six  hundred  cells,  or  losing  myself  in  the 
three  subterranean  passages. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  the  signore  Capitano  my- 
self, for  my  padrone,"  Vincenzo  ventures. 
"Grazie,  Vincenzo,"  I  reply,  "va  bene." 
Now  I  am  proud  of  my  Italian,  and  Vin- 
cenzo knows  it.  I  have  told  him  he  should  be 
grateful  that  I  understand  everything  he  says, 
and  so,  out  of  all  decency,  he  should  try  to  re- 
turn the  compliment.  Nevertheless  it  is  Luisa 
who  helps  me  with  the  dialetto.   In  Florence  I 
got  on  famously.   Indeed  so  famously  that  I 

16 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

never  quite  understood  why  I  did  not  instantly 
pass  as  a  Tuscan,  instead  of  being  as  instantly 
set  down  an  American.  Not  that  my  patriot- 
ism was  unflattered,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
my  vanity  suffered.  I  suppose  I  should  feel 
the  same  way  in  Stockholm  if  I  were  not  taken 
for  a  Swede.  But  there  is  one  consolation,  — 
I  have  red  hair. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  the  affable  Mar- 
chese  suggested  that  if,  perhaps,  I  did  not 
speak  his  mother  tongue  with  just  his  own 
exquisite  readiness,  at  least,  had  he  not  been 
told  otherwise,  he  would  assuredly  have  taken 
me  for  a  Nolan.  I  afterwards  found  out  that 
of  Nola's  thousand  inhabitants  ten  hundred 
of  them,  by  popular  report,  are  said  to  be 
thieves,  and  the  rest  light-fingered.  Thus 
stingeth  the  sting  of  treachery,  and  mocketh 
the  mockery  of  a  marchese. 

When,  some  time,  I  shall  take  a  little  jour- 
ney from  this  Rose  of  the  Mediterranean  to 
peep  again  at  the  lovely  Lily  of  the  Arno,  I 
know,  then,  Don  Ubaldo,  my  good  old  Floren- 
tine gossip,  will  chide  me  for  deserting  the  fair 
flower  of  the  Tuscan  lingua  for  the  jargon  of 

17 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

my  southern  isle.  Well,  I  shall  draw  myself  up 
then,  proudly,  and  tell  him  that  if  I  say  ucchi- 
uzzi  neri  instead  of  occhi  neri,  the  eyes  of  a 
southern  maid  are  just  as  black  as  any  that 
peep  out  from  the  casements  under  the  hill 
of  San  Miniato!  Of  course  I  shall  only  say  this 
to  tease  the  signorina  Giulietta,  who  will  be 
standing  by,  —  not  that  she  cares  a  lettuce- 
leaf  about  me,  but  because  there  has  always 
been  a  standing  quarrel  between  us  about  my 
little  island,  which  she  disdains  (though  she 
has  never  seen  it)  and  the  fickleness  of  the 
Florentines,  an  assumption  upon  my  part 
which  she  vehemently  denies.  I  should  lose  all 
faith  in  her  if  she  did  not,  for  she  is  the  soul 
of  truth.  When  I  speak  of  the  red  roses  of  the 
South  she  hums  a  little  Tuscan  tune  that  has 
come  down  from  Messer  Ottavio  Rinuccini's 
time,  for  she  knows  I  will  recollect  its  silly 
little  verses  about  the  white  lilies  of  the  Arno. 
That  I  might  have  been  living  in  Florence 
is  true,  as  signorina  Giulietta  reminds  me,  and 
indeed  I  almost  wonder  what  courage  took 
me  so  far  from  the  singing  of  those  rippling 
waters  of  the  Val  d'  Arno,  to  find  myself  here 

18 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

on  the  very  Isle  of  the  Sirens,  by  which,  once, 
the  exemplary  Ulysses  passed,  though  with  a 
sigh,  as  he  looked  back  with  memories  of  his 
heart's  delight.  But  I  looked  a  bit  about  Set- 
tignano,  where  Bennett's  perfect  villa  is  the 
arena  of  the  learned,  who  foregather  there  to 
deny  Sandro  Botticelli  the  Bella  Simonetta, 
and  imagine  they  are  generous  in  bestowing 
on  Ortolano  something  the  failing  brush  of 
Garofalo  had  cast  aside  in  despair.  Yet  lovely 
as  it  is,  nestling  there  on  its  hill-top,  I  could 
never  have  been  rid  of  the  sadness  of  thinking 
of  a  certain  little  casa  set  in  a  tiny  hillside 
farm  there.  It  is  thorn-grown  with  the  pale 
roses  of  yesterday,  which  only  live  to  tell  of 
the  sorrow  of  the  sweet  lady,  whose  broken 
heart  but  added  another  theme  to  a  poet's 
rime.  He  still  lives  across  the  way.  Moreover 
his  dogs  bark  dismally  night  and  day;  —  so  I 
came  down  into  the  valley  again,  heavy- 
hearted,  hearing  only  the  song  of  a  wounded 
thrush  by  the  wayside. 

If  it  was  different  with  Fiesole,  they  would 
neither  permit  me  to  pitch  tent  in  the  old 
arena  there,  nor  let  me  take  up  the  offending 

19 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

car-tracks  that  would  bring  hordes  of  the  un- 
appreciative  curious  right  to  the  very  front 
door  of  the  vita  nuova  I  sought.  So  that,  too, 
was  impossible. 

As  for  the  heart  of  the  city  itself,  I  suppose 
I  felt  I  might  succumb,  some  day,  to  the  mad 
impulse  of  trying  to  take  Giotto's  tower  home 
with  me,  of  tucking  good  Sandro's  poem  of 
springtime  under  my  arm,  or  of  being  tempted 
beyond  the  bounds  of  safety  to  abstract  the 
precious  manuscript  of  Messer  Petrarco's 
Canzone,  there  in  the  Laurentian  Library, 
where  my  friend  Bacci  lets  me  have  a  look  at 
it  now  and  then.  He  tells  me  no  one  else 
guesses  it  is  there,  or  would  bother  to  come 
and  see  it  if  he  did.  I  should  probably  com- 
pound my  felony  by  trying  to  bribe  him  into 
accepting  the  post  of  librarian  of  my  own  col- 
lection, for  I  happen  to  have  a  Codex  Dan- 
tesca,  utterly  unknown  to  even  the  good  Don 
Ubaldo,  and  I  almost  feel  certain  the  joy  of  its 
unique  guardianship  would  go  far  with  friend 
Bacci. 

So  it  were  better,  instead,  that  Florence 
should  be  but  the  Mecca  of  my  pilgrimages,  — 

20 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

the  soil  of  my  roof-tree  this  island,  found  one 
beautiful  day  last  spring  when  the  tumultu- 
ously  turbulent  tide  of  a  rebellious  bay  tossed 
me  from  the  arms  of  Naples  into  its  hospitable 
lap.  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  had  been  on  the 
very  point  of  being  angry  with  myself  at  hav- 
ing been  persuaded  by  the  enthusiastic  English 
lady  and  her  extremely  disagreeable  husband 
to  board  the  vaporetto,  under  the  assurance 
that,  otherwise,  I  would  surely  be  missing 
something,  for  the  piccolo  giro  was  put  down 
by  Herr  Baedeker  as  one  of  the  wonders  of 
the  world. 

The  trip  was  abominable.  Just  off  Sorrento, 
we  hovered  to  take  on  the  travelers  who 
bobbed  about  below  in  treacherous  little  boats 
that  groaned  with  the  hysterical  attempts  of 
their  passengers  to  make  themselves  believe 
they  would  not  go  to  the  bottom.  Neptune 
would  not  let  go  their  coat-tails.  Our  captain 
shouted  things,  our  pilot  shouted  things,  and 
our  crew  shouted  things.  The  tempest  gath- 
ered. Already  angry  mists  hid  the  lemon- 
crowned  precipices  above,  and  one  could  not 
help  wondering  if  all  those  woebegone  and 

21 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

frightened  people,  tossing  about,  could  escape 
being  dashed  against  the  rocks  about  them. 
Pietro,  our  helmsman,  ventured  to  say  that  if 
they  were  tedeschi,  no,  but  if  they  were  gentle- 
folk like  Signer  Myself,  Heaven  would  not 
wait!  —  a  dubious  compliment  requiring  a 
stipend;  therefore,  deeming  it  prodigal  to  con- 
tinue so  expensive  a  conversation,  I  went  be- 
low to  attempt  to  comfort  the  comfortless. 
As  for  myself,  I  am  never  ill  at  sea,  and  charity 
forbids  my  mentioning  the  condition  of  the 
poor  English  lady  and  her  disagreeable  hus- 
band! 

Having  battled  with  the  elements  until  our 
craft  seemed  ready  to  give  up  in  despair,  the 
storm  abated,  clouds  lifted,  the  seas  became 
quiet,  and  there  lay  the  beautiful  island  before 
me.  But  with  all  it  promised,  now  sun-kissed 
and  beckoning  to  us,  there  were  few  who  could 
be  persuaded  to  quit  the  boat.  They  would 
return  in  that  hulk  of  Charon's  choosing  while 
the  courage  and  the  pain  of  it  all  was  still  on 
them  to  bear.  After  a  day's  rest  to  anticipate 
another  such  voyage?  Never!  Thus  I  was  rid 
of  my  self-appointed  companions. 

22 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

That,  I  suppose,  is  why  I  had  almost  every- 
thing my  own  way,  and  having  it  so,  why  I 
found  out  that  the  bell1  isola  was  to  be  mine 
forever. 

Now,  being  a  decisive  person,  I  called  on  the 
Sindaco  immediately.  The  signore  Sindaco 
was  honored  with  the  attention  of  the  signore 
Americano.  I  knew  he  would  be,  and  that  of 
course  he  would  tell  the  signore  Americano  of 
all  the  villas  to  be  had.  There  was  the  Villa 
Barb  a  rosso  —  too  high  up  the  mountain,  the 
mark  of  Jove's  wrath  in  fact,  for  three  times 
it  had  been  struck  by  lightning.  "Besides" 
—  and  the  Sindaco  whispered  something  I 
shall  forego  repeating.  As  for  the  Villa  di 
Fiori  —  well,  although  the  owner  and  the  Sin- 
daco were  not  on  the  good  terms  they  might 
have  been  but  for  undivulged  reasons,  it  was 
a  perfect  villa,  honesty  forced  that  admission 
(whatever  might  be  one's  private  inclinations 
in  respect  to  such  a  poor  excuse  for  an  owner), 
a  perfect  villa,  the  Sindaco  repeated,  if  the 
signore  Americano  was  not  afraid  of  the  fever 
germs  of  the  deadly  typhus,  which  common 
report  had  it  ridden  with.  Now  it  happened 

23 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

that  the  signore  Americano  was  afraid,  pre- 
cisely that,  although  he  has  since  found  out 
how  certainly  the  fears  of  the  Sindaco  were  oc- 
casioned by  an  antipathy  quite  opposed  to  the 
precept,  the  loving  of  one's  neighbor  as  one's 
self.  Finally,  it  seemed,  there  was  the  Villa 
Giacinto,  —  House  of  Hyacinth  indeed !  The 
signore  Americano  could,  at  least,  take  a  look 
at  it;  and  so  he  did.  Thus  he  happens  to  be 
here  this  blessed  minute,  waiting  for  Vincenzo 
to  return  with  something  he  has  been  telling  his 
master  about,  something,  his  padrone  has  n't 
the  least  idea  what  (for  he  has  not  advanced 
claim  to  an  encyclopaedic  knowledge  of  each 
and  every  noun  known  to  the  favored  of  the 
later  Latin  races).  However,  the  signore  My- 
self is  hoping  it  is  something  to  eat.  It  is  won- 
derful how  this  air  keeps  the  appetite  con- 
stantly nagging  at  figs  and  oranges.  But  I  see 
Vincenzo  coming,  and  it  is  not  something  to 
eat.  I  might  have  known  not,  —  that  would 
have  been  Luisa's  prerogative,  at  least  as  far 
as  the  garden  path,  where  she  would  be  stand- 
ing and  beaming  down,  inviting  my  approval, 
had  she  entrusted  any  delicacy  to  the  care  of 

24 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Vincenzo.  No,  it  is  nothing  of  the  sort.  It 
shines,  —  reflecting  the  beams  of  the  setting 
sun  as  though,  heliographically,  it  were  striving 
to  convey  a  message  of  its  intent  to  my  slow- 
pacing  comprehension.  But  it  does  n't,  for 
Vincenzo  is  not  near  enough.  Now  that  he  is, 
I  call  out,  "What  have  you  there,  Vincenzo?" 


Ill 


"  £  UN  telescope,  signore!"  explains  Vin- 
cenzo,  as  he  hands  me  an  instrument  of  bat- 
tered brass  that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  the 
spy-glass  of  a  Barbary  pirate.  Now  I  have  a 
perfect  horror  of  persons  prying  from  their 
residential  fastnesses  on  the  movements  of  un- 
suspecting neighbors,  merely  by  virtue  of  tel- 
escopic immunity.  I  have  no  doubt  Vincenzo 
has  intended  it  all  as  a  delightful  surprise,  but 
I  owe  it  to  myself  to  convey  to  him  a  sense  of 
my  disapproval  of  any  such  specialized  investi- 
gations. Therefore,  taking  the  glass  from  him, 
I  close  it,  and  hold  it  upon  my  knee. 

"Vincenzo,"  I  say,  "it  is  very  kind  of  you 
to  think  of  everything  that  you  imagine  could 
entertain  your  padrone.  But  you  see  I  am 
unfortunately  possessed  of  many  prejudices 
against  telescopes,  always  excepting,  of  course, 
their  employment  in  astronomical  observa- 
tions, or  when  in  use  on  the  high  seas." 

"But  are  we  not  on  the  high  seas,  signore?" 
26 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Vincenzo  protests  ingenuously,  not  a  bit  con- 
fused by  all  my  long  words.  "Look,  and  look, 
and  look!  Our  beautiful  island  is  only  a  boat 
of  land  after  all,  and  what  the  signore  can  have 
against  a  most  delicious  telescope  —  eh,  the 
signore  has  a  right;  but  I  do  not  under- 
stand!" He  lifts  his  shoulder  in  deprecat- 
ing disappointment,  and  half  reaches  out  for 
the  baneful  tube.  J  feel  that  I  have  been 
clumsy. 

"Oh,"  I  say,  "you  must  not  think,  Vincenzo, 
that  I  do  not  appreciate  it;  only  it  does  not 
seem  just  fair  to  be  looking  into  other  people's 
gardens,  and  seeing  other  people,  when  other 
people  have  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
they  are  being  seen;  does  it?  It  may  be  enter- 
taining, and,  at  times,  even  instructive, —  all 
that  I  admit.  But  is  it  kind,  honest  Vin- 
cenzo?" 

"Santa  Constanza!"  Vincenzo  exclaims,  in 
well-affected,  open-eyed  wonder.  "Who  invited 
the  signore  to  do  such  wicked  things!  Why, 
there  are  the  mountains  under  the  blue  sky 
above,  the  green  sea  below,  Messer  Vesuvio 
looking  like  a  half-chewed  olive  over  there  to 

27 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

the  right,  —  smoking  all  day  long,  and  puffing 
into  the  face  of  those  Neapolitan  scoundrels, 
and  all  of  Heaven  to  the  left.  Surely  the  gods 
have  been  good  and  generous,  and  there  is  no 
need  for  the  signore  to  be  spying  upon  his  neigh- 
bors. It  is  not  for  me  to  understand  how  so 
wicked  a  thought  ever  came  into  my  signore's 
saintly  head!" 

Now  I  like  to  hear  Vincenzo  when  he  is 
stirred  up,  and  it  is  rather  nice  to  discover  that 
one  has  a  saintly  head.  I  turn  mine  to  conceal 
the  smile  I  cannot  repress.  Then,  too,  Vin- 
cenzo has  a  habit  of  beginning  his  tirades  by 
invoking  some  interesting  saint  new  to  my 
hagiology  and  ending  amazingly,  as  he  often 
does,  with  an  appeal  to  pagan  deities.  That 
is  why  I  half  suspect  he  is  more  Greek  than 
your  modern  Athenian.  Every  mother's  son 
of  them  seems  to  be  that  on  this  island,  be- 
cause, perhaps,  they  have  not  wasted  the  her- 
itage of  their  origin.  Yes,  I  am  inclined  to 
think  there  is  more  that  is  Greek  in  Vincenzo 
and  Luisa  than  in  all  the  things  Lord  Elgin 
fetched  over  to  smother  in  the  smoke  of  Lon- 
don town. 

28 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

However  rebuked  I  must  admit  myself  to 
be,  I  struggle  for  a  word  in  self-defense. 

"One  cannot  always  be  looking  out  to  sea," 
I  say,  "like  the  land-locked  mariner  in  search 
of  a  phantom  fleet,  nor  can  one  be  star-gazing 
on  a  dazzling  summer's  day.  Even  toward 
Vesuvius  there  is  always  danger  of  not  quite 
clearing  the  house-tops.  Like  some  unfortu- 
nate aeronaut  I  might  miscalculate,  and  steer 
the  ethereal  craft  of  my  vision  against  a  bal- 
cony, instead  of  over-roof.  In  other  words,  I 
might  find  myself  eavesdropping  by  accident. 
How  can  one  sometimes  help  it?  What  do  you 
say  to  that?"  I  am  gaining. 

"The  signore  has  but  to  close  the  tele- 
scope," Vincenzo  replies  with  decision.  "He 
has  but  not  to  look!" 

I  have  lost. 

In  the  face  of  Vincenzo's  clear  logic  I  have 
not  the  heart  for  obstinacy,  so  I  do  not  hand 
back  his  telescope,  —  at  least  not  just  yet. 
Instead,  I  change  the  subject  without  commit- 
ting myself  one  way  or  another,  and  suddenly 
become  interested  in  the  landscape. ' 

"Tell  me  some  more  about  the  monastery 
29 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

down  there,  Vincenzo."  We  both  lean  forward 
to  look  over  the  edge  of  the  terrace  wall,  from 
which  we  see  the  spreading  white  buildings  in 
the  distance. 

"It  was  this  way,  signore,"  he  begins. 
"Many  hundred  years  ago  the  good  frati  built 
their  convento  down  there;  year  after  year  they 
made  everything  more  beautiful,  until,  at  last, 
they  had  six  hundred  little  rooms  and  thirty 
staircases,  all  under  the  protection  of  the  good 
San  Sal  va  tore.  Every  year  they  gave  away  fifty 
thousand  lire  to  the  poor.  Think  of  it,  signore! 
—  fifty  thousand  lire  to  the  poor,  in  alms  and 
in  corn  and  in  wine.  The  Conti  di  Minervino 
started  their  buildings  for  them  six  hundred 
years  before  our  day,  at  least  Don  Enrico  says 
so,  and  he  ought  to  know,  for  when  he  is  not 
preaching,  or  when  he  is  not  saying  his  mass 
at  San  Stefano,  or  when  he  is  not  visiting  his 
poor,  he  studies  such  things.  He  has  so  many 
books"  (Vincenzo  points  from  one  end  of  the 
pergola  to  the  other),  "and  he  understands 
them  all.  He  has  lovely  little  statues  in  his 
garden,  signore,"  Vincenzo  adds  irrelevantly; 
"he  dug  them  up  himself  in  his  vineyard  once, 

30 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

and  he  says  the  Romans  brought  them  here." 
I  am  sure  I  should  like  Don  Enrico  and  the 
little  statues,  but  as  it  is  not  good  manners  to 
wander  in  conversation,  I  remind  Vincenzo  of 
the  Certosa. 

"Ah,  yes,  —  I  had  forgotten,  —  to  be  sure 
—  about  the  Certosa !  Well,  after  all,  the  Nor- 
mans and  the  Pirates  and  those  wicked  Sara- 
cen-limbs-of-Satan,  whose  children  are  living 
over  there  to-day"  (he  means  the  Anacaprese, 
and  points  with  scorn  toward  the  other  side  of 
Monte  Solaro,  while  I  remember  the  bitter 
feud  between  the  villages),  —  "after  all  these 
wicked  ones  had  gone  with  their  plunder,  the 
dreaded  Messer  Plague  brought  Messer  Death 
with  his  scythe  to  mow  down  every  soul  on  the 
island,  except  the  blessed  monks  who  were  in 
the  Certosa.  They  alone  escaped.  It  was  a 
miracle." 

I  afterwards  learn  that  the  blessed  monks, 
with  heartlessness,  and  an  abnormal  sense  of 
self-preservation,  shut  themselves  up  in  their 
cloisters,  refusing  to  hold  communion  with  the 
outside  world,  lest  they,  too,  should  become 
servants  of  Messer  Plague  and  guests  of 

3* 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Messer  Death.  However,  I  do  not  begrudge 
Vincenzo  the  comfort  of  his  version.  What 
else  is  legend  for  if  not  to  plant  gardens  in  the 
barren  spots  of  the  past? 

Vincenzo  hurries  on.  "This  was  over  two 
hundred  years  gone  by.  Then  the  English 
pounced  down  and  took  the  Certosa  away 
from  the  good  monks,  though  not  for  long. 
The  French  drove  them  out  in  turn,  and 
marched  with  their  arms  and  baggage  right 
into  the  cloisters,  into  the  very  church,  where 
they  turned  everything  topsy-turvy.  Oh,  but 
those  were  wicked  old  times !  Old  Pietro  Trama 
has  dug  up  a  rusty  cannon-ball  from  his  vine- 
yard that  these  Frenchmen  tossed  to  there. 
Do  you  like  the  French,  signore?" 

I  am  discreetly  silent.  "Go  on,  Vincenzo." 
"Well,  the  Certosa  never  recovered,  and 
the  monks  are  gone  long  since.  May  Messer 
Giove  and  all  the  gods  watch  over  them !  The 
six  hundred  rooms  are  all  as  empty  as  the 
heads  of  the  Salernese,  and  not  a  foot  that  be- 
longs there  steps  up  and  down  those  thirty 
staircases."  Then  he  adds,  reflectively,  "Had 
not  my  padrone  bought  this  piccolo  paradiso 

32 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

there  would  still  have  been  left  the  Certosa." 
I  ask  questions.  "The  Government  cannot  find 
any  one  to  buy  it,  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  lire  is  a  vast  sum,  signore,  —  still 
the  monks  gave  that  away  in  five  years."  I 
find  Vincenzo  is  fond  of  statistical  mathema- 
tics. I  believe  he  is  much  quicker  at  Thales' 
science  than  I  am!  "Two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  lire  is  a  vast  sum,"  he  repeats.  "I 
doubt  if  even  the  king  has  so  much." 

Without  disputing  Vincenzo's  acumen,  I 
reflect  that  with  three  hundred  cells  and  the 
thirty  staircases,  only  being  a  Mormon  could 
warrant  such  an  extravagance.  I  know  I  would 
not  exchange  my  little  villa  and  its  little  gar- 
den for  a  hundred  certosas  with  all  their  creepy 
monkish  memories.  However,  lest  Vincenzo 
hold  any  false  notion  as  to  my  being  a  Maece- 
nas in  disguise,  I  hasten  to  set  him  right.  So 
I  say,  "  I  fear  no  one  will  ever  buy  it,  Vincenzo; 
I  doubt  if  there  is  so  much  money  in  all  the 
world."  Vincenzo  looks  disappointed,  yet  un- 
convinced, so  I  take  up  the  telescope  and 
direct  it  toward  the  ruined  old  cloisters,  while 
he  looks  at  me  curiously.  Somehow  I  imagine 

33 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

he  is  wondering  about  my  bank  account,  but 
in  a  natural  and  polite  manner. 

Suddenly,  as  the  telescope  describes  an  arc, 
I  cry  out  without  thinking,  "Madonna  mia!  >! 

Vincenzo,  surprised  by  my  startled  tone, 
asks,  in  innocent  trepidation,  if  the  signore 
sees  anything. 

"The  signore  certainly  does  not  see  any- 
thing," I  lie.  "The  signore  never  sees  any- 
thing." I  try  to  cover  my  indiscretion  force- 
fully. 

"Ah,"  says  Vincenzo,  "I  thought  the  sig- 
nore had  seen  something.  Just  now  I  thought 
I  myself  saw  something,  —  something  blue, 
but  I  have  no  wonderful  telescope,  and  perhaps 
it  was  the  sky."  His  eyes  sparkle  with  mis- 
chievous delight.  "Or  perhaps  it  was  a  beau- 
tiful blue  flower,"  he  adds,  "as  big  as — " 

"As  big  as  what,  Vincenzo?"  I  snap,  an- 
noyed —  I,  too,  have  seen  the  blue  flower. 

"Who  knows?"  (Vincenzo  can  be  as  aggra- 
vating in  his  own  particular  way  as  any  one  I 
know.)  "  It  is  not  for  a  mere  simple  one  like 
me  to  know,  signore.  It  must  have  been  a  —  a 
delusion  of  the  brain  of  me." 

34 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

It  is  not  a  delusion.  It  is  precisely  the 
image  I  have  retained  ever  since  I  saw  her 
looking  down  from  the  balcony  window,  mis- 
chievously beautiful.  No,  it  is  not  a  delusion, 
and  now  here  she  is,  right  in  the  sweep  of  the 
telescope!  I  am  furious  that  Vincenzo  still 
prowls  around,  pretending  to  be  fussing  with 
the  geraniums.  How  can  I  keep  looking,  and 
maintain  his  belief  in  my  telescopic  scruples? 
She  is  not  alone.  An  older  woman  is  with 
her,  and  a  man  —  plainly  a  foreigner,  so  I  am 
consumed  with  curiosity.  Vincenzo  remains 
calmly  aggravating,  whistling  a  miserable 
Neapolitan  tune.  I  shall  have  some  questions 
to  ask  Luisa.  Suddenly  Vincenzo  stops  whis- 
tling and  is  very  quiet.  After  all  was  it  not  he 
who  brought  me  his  beloved  telescope,  and 
faithfully  put  it  in  my  ungrateful  hand,  mean- 
ing to  please  me?  To  have  rewarded  him  with 
a  sermon  that  he  does  not  understand  and 
never  will,  instead  of  giving  him  thanks  —  I 
am  a  brute!  To  make  amends  I  call  him  over 
to  me  again. 

"This  is  a  wonderful  telescope,  my  Vincenzo ! 
I  am  very  proud  that  we  have  it,  so  don't  give 

35 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

it  away."  I  watch  his  face  light  up  with 
pleasure. 

"It  is  a  wonderfully  good  telescope,  signore, 
the  best  on  the  island." 

Of  course  I  yield.  If  there  are  so  many  per- 
haps it  is  all  right  after  all! 

"And  it  is  very  true,  Vincenzo,"  I  add 
pacifically,  "very  true  what  you  say  about  our 
little  boat  of  land.  We  shall  have  to  set  up  as 
marinai  di  terra!  What  you  say  about  the 
mountains  under  the  blue  sky,  of  the  sea  be- 
low us,  and  of  Messer  Vesuvio  over  there  is 
also  very  true,  and  we  need  not  be  led  into 
temptation  after  all." 

Vincenzo  is  quite  sure  we  need  not,  and  to 
be  certain,  takes  a  peek  through  the  glass  for 
himself.  / 


IV 


LUISA  has  told  me  all  about  her,  lingering, 
I  suppose,  under  the  impression,  from  heaven 
knows  where,  that  the  Contessa's  sister  has 
stirred  within  me  a  wave  of  romance.  I  let 
her  run  on,  however,  for  the  way  Luisa  makes 
it  plain  there  is  n't  a  particle  of  hope  shows  a 
tender  solicitude  that  is  flattering.  Her  name 
is  Francesca  ;  his,  Von  Wulff  —  Baron  von 
Wulff.  Luisa  says  that  as  the  family  have 
made  up  their  minds,  a  thing,  she  says,  they 
are  famous  for  doing,  that  as  the  Baron  has  n't 
changed  his,  and  that  as  the  signorina  Fran- 
cesca is  dutiful,  why  that  is  all  there  is  to  be 
said  about  it. 

Probably  Luisa  is  right;  usually  she  is. 

Von  Wulff  is  not  a  beautiful  name ;  it  would 
stick  to  one's  memory  like  remorse  to  the 
conscience.  That,  I  suppose,  is  why  I  know  I 
have  heard  it  before.  It  comes  back  to  me  on 
the  instant  —  the  Baron  with  his  abominable 
black  oil-cloth  luggage,  Tyrolean  togs,  pudgy 

37 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

face  —  which  of  course  he  could  n't  help  — 
and  aggressive  ill-breeding  —  which  of  course 
he  could  —  pushing  himself  into  the  compart- 
ment at  Empoli,  as  though  it  were  the  Ark  of 
Noah,  and  pushing  himself  out  again  like  some 
Herulian  hurricane.  Was  n't  it  a  terrific  down- 
pour that  met  us  at  Siena,  though !  And  the 
Baron,  incredibly  nimble,  seizing  the  only  con- 
veyance to  be  had,  leaving  me  there  with 
three  disgruntled  old  ladies  from  England  on 
my  hands,  old  ladies  of  the  sight-seeing  sort 
that  venture  from  Florence  alone,  violently 
vexatious,  and  of  necessity  thrown  upon  the 
resources  of  my  rain-coat,  umbrella,  and  pa- 
tience, until,  dripping  and  bedraggled,  we 
found  our  way  into  the  Pride  of  Senius  on  a 
water-logged  tram-car,  whose  plush  seats  had 
long  since  become  veritable  sponges  of  dis- 
comfort, dangerous  to  delicate  constitutions. 
We  met  at  dinner,  all  of  us,  since  Dame 
Fortune  stood  hostess  to  our  destinies  in  the 
way  of  the  same  pensione  and  its  single  din- 
ing-table.  The  Baron  appeared  early  (his  in- 
variable custom  when  food  was  to  be  the 
programme),  eating  everything  on  the  board, 

38 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

utterly  oblivious  to  the  law  of  limitations.  As 
continental  table  manners  are  at  best  still  rem- 
iniscent of  emphatic  mediaevalism,  the  Baron 
distinguished  himself  supremely  in  this  direc- 
tion, while  from  time  to  time  the  hungry  little 
old  ladies  from  England  looked  on,  I  occa- 
sionally rescuing  a  bit  of  bread  out  of  the  very 
jaws  of  the  Baron  as  a  last  straw  to  be  grasped 
by  the  four  of  us,  otherwise  sinking  in  the 
sea  of  sustenance. 

Nevertheless  we  out-generaled  the  Teuton 
by  prolonging  our  stay  some  two  days  beyond 
his.  We  celebrated  his  departure  by  a  feast  at 
the  Eden,  with  afterwards  a  turn  at  the  little 
circus  by  the  Lisa,  where  the  Umbrian  clown 
consoled  us  with  skits  on  the  Herr  Baron,  for 
which  I  had  arranged  in  advance,  that  the 
dear  old  ladies  might  not  go  back  without 
pleasant  impressions  of  the  grim  old  city  after 
all.  A  gala  night!  Poor  dear  indefatigable 
little  old  ladies  from  England !  I  really  missed 
them  when  they  left. 

And  so  it  is  to  be  the  dreadful  Herr  Baron 
and  the  lovely  Contessa's  sister  —  the  Beast 
and  the  Beauty.  Being  quite  independent,  I 

39 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

can  remark  to  myself,  without  being  hauled 
up  for  commonplace,  that  the  world  is  a  tiny 
place.  It  is  almost  as  though  I  had  the  dra- 
matis personae  by  heart,  and  had  then  unex- 
pectedly stumbled  upon  a  rehearsal.  So  I  turn 
again  to  the  oracular  Luisa. 

"Does  she  love  him?"  I  ask. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  This  is  startling,  but  I 
am  pleased.  "Why,  who,  signore,  could  love 
a  terrible  tedesco?"  Luisa  is  surprised  at  my 
stupidity. 

"  Then  why  does  she  intend  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"Eh,  but  he  is  very  rich,  signore,  very  rich. 
And  he  has  arranged  it  with  the  signorina 
Francesca's  uncle.  The  signorina  Francesca's 
uncle  is  very  much  pleased.  He  likes  him  very 
much.  They  quarrel  over  cribbage.  So  it  is 
all  settled." 

I  am  silent  a  moment.  I  wonder  if  I,  too, 
could  not  quarrel  with  the  uncle  over  cribbage. 
But  alas!  I  know  nothing  about  cribbage. 

"It  is  a  very  wicked  game,  Luisa." 

"Mama  mia!  Yes,"  she  answers,  "to  marry, 
it  is  a  game." 

Now  of  course  I  meant  cribbage,  and  Luisa 
40 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

knows  very  well  that  I  did :  but  I  look  over  at 
Vincenzo,  who  has  just  come  in.  Nothing 
there  indicates  any  occasion  for  an  intended 
thrust,  so  I  conclude  it  is  just  a  philosophical 
generalization  on  Luisa's  part. 

"Luisa  tells  me  the  Contessa's  sister  is  in 
love  with  the  German  Baron." 

"A  woman  never  gets  anything  right,  sig- 
nore!"  Vincenzo  replies  with  a  deprecating 
look  at  Luisa,  the  Inferior  "The  Contessa's 
sister  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,  as  sensible 
as  she  is  both.  Therefore  to  love  the  barone 
tedesco  were  to  love  a  pork.  The  signorina 
Contessa's  sister  does  not  love  a  pork.  It  is 
only  that  she  is  obedient.  Signor  Uncle  will 
have  his  way  and  his  cribbage,  and  that  is  all 
there  is  to  it."  Another  withering  look  at 
Luisa  suggests  the  expediency  of  explaining 
that  I  fear  I  have  not  exactly  interpreted  her 
aright,  and  that,  after  all,  she  too  had  given 
me  to  understand  it  was  more  a  matter  of  the 
uncle  and  cribbage  than  of  love  and  lute- 
strings. But  Vincenzo  is  nettled. 

"Must  the  Contessa's  sister  be  so  dutiful, 
Vincenzo?"  I  inquire,  thinking  what  a  pretty 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

allegory  it  would  have  made  had  she  been 
christened  Margherita,  a  pearl,  too  precious 
to  cast  before  match-seeking  tedeschi  by  crib- 
bage-mad  uncles.  "Must  she  be  so  dutiful 
and  break  her  heart,  maybe  ?  Is  there  no  one 
else?" 

They  both  laugh. 

"Always,"  Vincenzo  declares,  by  way  of 
explaining  his  levity,  "up  to  the  next  to  the 
last  minute,  certo  there  is  somebody  else !  But 
then,  after  that,  never,  that  is  so  far  as  the 
signorina  Francesca  .will  be  concerned.  It's  a 
pity,  for  the  good  San  Costanzo  knows  what  a 
sweet  will  of  her  own  she  has !  Now  there  was 
the  English  milor,"  Vincenzo  holds  out  his 
fingers  and  begins  to  count,  "and  the  French 
marquis,  and  the  Russian  prince." 

"And  the  Austrian  count,"  Luisa  adds. 

"And  the  Neapolitan  senator,"  Vincenzo 
concludes. 

I  hold  my  breath  from  wonderment,  and 
begin  to  feel  that  one's  skies  may  be  more  over- 
cast than  one  suspects. 

"And  they  were  all  rich."  Luisa  confirms 
Vincenzo's  information. 

42 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Terribly  rich."    This  is  not  reassuring. 

"And  old  and  ugly,"  says  Luisa.    This  is. 

Now  I  am  not  old,  nor  am  I  especially  ugly; 
anyway  Luisa  looks  at  me  and  smiles  know- 
ingly. I  must  not  encourage  any  such  famil- 
iarity, however,  so  I  scowl.  As  scowls  are  alien 
to  my  disposition  I  am  not  successful,  and 
Luisa  asks  me  if  I  have  neuralgia.  She  will 
probably  ask  me  next  if  I  am  in  love.  I  would 
have  a  good  answer  for  that,  but  I  suppose  I 
must  make  allowance  for  the  romantic  temper- 
ament of  the  south,  so  I  decide  not  to  be  an- 
noyed after  all.  Naturally  I  confess  to  a  very 
strong  interest  in  the  Contessa's  sister,  but  it 
is  only  because  life  must  have  a  little  poetry 
now  and  then  to  discipline  the  shaft-proof. 

To  be  perfectly  honest,  I  confess  that  if  I 
may  have  said,  "What  if  I  should  fall  in  love 
with  you,  fair  lady!  "when  thereat  the  balcony 
window  I  saw  the  Contessa's  sister,  it  was  only 
because  I  wanted  to  see  what  sort  of  a  poem 
it  might  make  to  imagine  her  mistress  of  Villa 
Giacinto  some  fine  day,  with  summer  flown 
and  come  again.  Poets,  I  believe,  may  think 
almost  anything  they  choose  anywhere  they 

43 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

happen  to  be,  about  any  one  they  see,  and  as 
Luisa  is  not  supposed  to  know  anything  about 
poetry,  and  as  I  never  read  her  mine,  I  must 
expect  lots  of  romantic  conjectures  from  her 
literal  mind. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  scent  of  the  jasmine 
flower,  and  the  beautiful  picture  of  her  as  she 
stood  there  that  made  me  think  all  these  futile 
things  about  the  Contessa's  sister.  Sentiment 
I  confess  to,  but  I  have  always  known  myself 
not  sentimental.  As  I  am  not  unkind,  it  is  grat- 
ifying to  my  sense  of  self-virtue  to  realize  that 
my  dislike  of  the  Baron  was  well  settled  long 
before  ever  I  saw  the  Contessa's  sister.  That 
it  may  become  intensified  is  not  to  be  set  down 
to  jealousy.  To  suppose  that  were,  under  the 
circumstances,  absurd;  I  am  only  sorry,  very 
sorry,  for  the  dear  little  sister  of  the  Con- 
tessa.  If  the  Contessa's  sister  marries  the  Herr 
Baron  there  will  be  no  poem  for  me  to  dream, 
nothing  but  the  awful  prose  of  cribbage  and 
one's  uncle. 

Luisa  brings  me  a  tiny  glass  of  golden 
liquore  after  my  coffee.  She  tells  me  it  is  La 
Strega  —  the  witch.  My  own  feeling  of  en- 

44 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

chantment  responds  to  the  witchery  of  the 
evening,  so  I  insist  on  going  out  for  a  walk  in 
the  cool  night  air.  Luisa  urges  me  to  beware 
the  scirocco,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  such 
silly  thing.  I  often  wonder  that  the  Italians 
survive  the  shut-inness  of  their  night-time. 
They  cover  themselves  with  blankets  in  July, 
and  fasten  their  windows  as  tightly  as  besieged 
in  time  of  war.  I  often  wonder  how  the  morn- 
ing finds  them  alive.  As  for  myself,  I  will  do 
none  of  these  stifling  things,  and  every  morn- 
ing when  Vincenzo  brings  in  my  breakfast  he 
looks  to  see  that  I  have  not  been  blown  to  a 
terrifying  ague  by  the  gentle  zephyrs  that  waft 
themselves  in  at  my  open  casement,  and  with 
a  sigh  of  intense  relief,  he  mutters,  "The  good 
God  has  again  been  kind!"  Then  I  hear  Luisa, 
who  has  been  listening  outside  the  door  for 
signs  of  life,  stealthily  tiptoe  away,  immensely 
relieved  that  there  is  not  to  be  a  funeral  after 
all. 

The  evening  is  perfect.  As  I  come  down  the 
hill  into  the  Via  Tragara  I  hear  a  sweet-voiced 
song  blown  toward  me  on  the  night  air,  and  I 
stop  to  listen  to  it. 

45 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Sweetheart,  good-night ! 
Fragrant  the  jasmine-flower ', 
Kissing  the  moon-glow  ! 
Sleep  thou  within  thy  bower  ! 
Gently  the  winds  blow, 
Cradling  my  love  for  thee  ! 

Like  leaf  of  almond-tree, 
Like  rippling  fountain's  flow, 
Full  with  the  moon's  proud  hour, 
Sending  with  perfume  low, 
My  love,  like  jasmine-flower  !  -t 
Good-night,  sweetheart ! 

The  last  note  dies  away  with  the  sob  of  the 
sea,  and  is  echoed  by  the  clattering  of  the  little 
wooden-soled  sandals  of  the  children,  hurry- 
ing down  the  little  strada  ahead,  on  their  way 
to  the  piazza. 

Suddenly  there  comes  borne  on  the  night 
air  the  rhythmic  din  of  cymbals,  the  metallic 
nervousness  of  tambourines,  and  the  squeaking 
and  squawking  that  betoken  one  of  my  true- 
est  delights,  good  old  Pulcinello,  who  has  come 
forth  even  in  this  remote  spot  to  gladden  the 
hearts  of  a  generation  that  scampers  about  in 
wild  delight.  My  own  heart  scampers  with 
theirs,  too,  for  I  still  cling  to  the  heritage  of 
my  Golden  Age.  But  the  song  of  the  jasmine- 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

flower  still  lingers  with  me  as  I  turn  the  corner 
and  find  myself  on  the  piazza.  It  is  the  sort 
of  song,  I  tell  myself,  that  my  Lady-of-the- 
Balcony  would  like  to  have  sung  to  her  on  just 
such  a  night  as  this.  Then  I  cannot  help  won- 
dering if  any  one  has  ever  sung  it  to  her.  Surely 
not  the  terrible  Herr  Baron!  At  least  there  is 
some  comfort  in  that.  Thus  one's  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  restores  the  spirit  to  buoyancy,  and 
I  laugh  at  the  thought. 

There  before  me  is  the  PuLcinello  show;  the 
whole  island  has  turned  out  to  see  it.  But  even 
its  hereditary  attractions  seem  nothing  com- 
pared to  my  own,  and  I  am  both  amazed  and 
embarrassed  to  find  myself  the  sudden  centre 
of  attraction,  when  I  had  only  intended  to  slip 
down  for  the  mail.  Here,  too,  is  the  foreign 
colony  en  masse.  There  they  all  are,  eleven 
fortunate  or  unfortunate  souls.  After  all  it  is 
rather  pleasant  to  feel  that  one  is  to  round  out 
a  respectable  dozen.  There  is  something,  too, 
about  every  one  that  makes  me  imagine  a  wel- 
come. So  I  begin  to  feel  at  home. 

As  I  cross  to  the  archway  I  almost  bump 
into  the  three  persons  I  saw  this  afternoon 

47 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

through  Vincenzo's  telescope, — the  Contessa's 
sister,  the  elderly  lady,  and  the  Herr  Baron. 
There  can  be  no  mistake.  I  apologize  for  my 
clumsiness,  the  Contessa's  sister  smiles  it 
away,  the  elderly  lady  is  amused,  and  the  Herr 
Baron  unperturbed  in  his  massiveness.  I  hurry 
on  to  the  post-office,  giving  time  for  recogni- 
tion to  penetrate  his  well-protected  brain. 


HAVING  breakfasted  in  bed  like  a  Caliph,  I 
dress  and  come  down  into  my  little  garden  to 
poke  around  in  the  morning  sun.  Everything 
is  carved  of  crystalline  color,  and  the  whole 
world  seems  like  an  iridescent  profumino, 
fragrant  with  the  breath  of  flowers,  refresh- 
ingly sweet  beyond  any  of  the  heavy  perfumes 
that  weary  the  senses.  Cool  is  the  day  and 
delicious,  and  the  sky  overhead  like  a  baldac- 
chino  of  pale  cerulean  velvet.  Vincenzo  hands 
me  a  letter  from  America.  I  forget  everything 
else  and  hurry  to  open  the  envelope.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  a  sort  of  international  provincialism 
that  finds  one  caring  more  about  what  those 
little  stamped  missives  from  one's  own  birth- 
country  have  to  tell  than  for  any  foreign  thing 
under  the  sun,  and  so,  for  a  minute,  I  too  be- 
come internationally  provincial.  It  is  a  letter 
from  John  North,  —  dear  old  Jack,  who  loves 
to  take  liberties  with  my  dignity,  and  is  at  it 
again :  — 

49 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"DearMossless  Roller,"  he  has  the  temer- 
ity to  begin,  "you  will  be  properly  delighted 
to  know  Elsie  met  the  Carringtons  before  she 
left  Florence.  They  told  her  you  had  decided 
to  pitch  your  tent  for  good  in  the  land  of  the 
lazy.  They  all  approve  of  it.  I  don't.  So,  as 
I  said  before,  you  will  be  properly  delighted. 
Why  a  fellow  wants  to  miss  a  good  chance  of 
going  into  the  wholesale  business  —  you  know 
I  opened  the  portals  of  ours  to  you  (the  minute 
I  heard  you  had  fallen  heir  to  your  crusty  old 
great-uncle's  dough)  —  and  yet  you  refuse  to 
be  guided  by  the  spirit  of  the  times,  and  instead 
of  nobly  joining  every  one  of  us  in  working 
ourselves  to  death  in  dingy  offices,  scheming 
how  we  can  run  up  the  price  of  living  and  rake 
off  a  margin  for  our  own,  you,  heedless  of  your 
duty  toward  civilization,  suddenly  declare  that 
you  are  going  to  lead  such  an  irrational  life  as 
the  one  you  have  chosen,  which  combines  rest, 
health,  contemplation,  freedom  from  worry, 
and  time  for  your  friends.  I  sadly  fear  you  are 
very  far  behind  the  times;  none  of  these  things 
is  modern.  However,  if  you  will  be  antiquated 
there 's  no  help  for  it.  If  you  should  get  stuck 

50 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

for  sandals,  just  send  over  your  measure.  Of 
course,  I  will  admit  some  of  the  attractions 
over  there,  for  I  remember  Carmelina,  though 
Elsie  says  I  should  n't.  If  you  ever  get  tired 
of  it  and  show  up  here,  remember  we  have  a 
spare  bed  that  is  as  hard  as  any  you'll  find  in 
Europe  —  we  keep  it  for  Uncle  Charles  (you 
know  he  is  not  particularly  agreeable  and 
stays  on  if  he  guesses  he  is  n't  wanted)  —  but 
by  all  the  good  trout  in  Benton's  Creek,  don't 
become  one  of  the  people.  I'm  just  breaking 
Elsie  of  it.  Actually  she  came  home  imagining 
she  had  n't  been  thrown  with  any  of  the  tourists, 
which  is  what  I  deserve  for  letting  her  travel 
alone.  I  tell  her  there  would  n't  be  any  tour- 
ists if  yourselves  stayed  at  home  unfurling  the 
Stars  and  Stripes.  However,  I  don't  mind 
your  joining  the  Mafia,  for  there's  nothing 
halfway  in  that.  But  I  suppose,  being  a  poet, 
you  '11  do  pretty  much  as  you  please.  Elsie  is 
looking  over  my  shoulder  and  says  what  I  've 
written  about  her  is  malicious  fabrication.  It 
is  not  polite  for  a  man  to  contradict  his  wife, 
so  I  must  refrain  from  any  individual  com- 
mentary. Elsie  says  a  whole  house  sounds 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

jolly  and  precious  like  things  that  happen  in 
June !  Well,  let  us  know,  for  it  takes  a  deucedly 
long  time  for  a  silver  butter-dish  to  reach  the 
Bay  of  Naples!  Be  sure  and  present  the  letter 
Elsie  is  inclosing  to  the  dearest  lady  you  will 
find  on  the  hemisphere  —  Mrs.  Delmar.  She 
is  a  Bostonian,  who  married  an  Englishman. 
They  say  her  husband,  who  was  a  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  posted  in  Canada,  died  in  a  tantrum 
over  the  Boston  Tea-party,  and  that  it  was  a 
happy  accident  for  her  future  happiness.  She 
lives  in  a  charming  villa  on  your  island,  and  if 
you  have  not  met  the  Delmars  already,  you 
will  thank  us  for  introducing  you.  All  sorts  of 
nice  people  from  all  over  the  world  are  at  her 
house.  Elsie  says  by  the  time  this  reaches  you 
there  will  not  be  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
province  that  you  will  not  know;  nevertheless, 
I  inclose  the  letter,  and  wind  this  up  with  the 
wistful  plea  that  you  write  and  tell  us  all  that 's 
happening.  Yours,  in  expectation, 

"  JACK  NORTH." 

Elsie  North  and  I  once  thought  we  were  in 
love.  John  North  came  along  and  proved  we 

52 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

were  n't.  Now  and  then  I  tease  Elsie  by  say- 
ing I  wish  he  had  n't,  and  yet  we  both  know 
we  would  have  been  utterly  miserable,  though 
we  did  n't  know  it  then.  I  turn  again  to 
North's  letter  and  read  the  note  of  introduc- 
tion, as  I  light  another  cigarette.  Through 
the  little  whiffs  of  smoke,  it  is  pleasant  for  one 
to  read  how  nice  one  is.  I  also  seem  to  see  For- 
tune's smiling  face,  for  it  cannot  be  that  Fate 
has  not  had  a  hand  in  Elsie's  Mrs.  Delmar 
being  the  nice  elderly  lady  with  the  Contessa's 
sister  yesterday  and  again  last  night  on  the 
piazza.  Providence  carefully  arranges  these 
things  when  it  chooses,  but  to  make  sure  I  call 
Luisa.  She  comes  running  out  of  her  kitchen. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Luisa,"  I  ask  her, 
"that  the  lady  with  the  Contessa's  sister  yes- 
terday was  the  signora  Delmar?" 

"Meeses  Delmar,"  Luisa  emphasizes  with 
a  happy  artfulness,  "una  donna  Americana  — 
inglese.  Very  sure,  padrone  mio." 

"But  how  are  you  sure,  Luisa?"  I  persist. 
"It  was  a  long  way  to  see." 

"Ah,  signore,  not  so  very  far  after  all,  when 
I  tell  you  that  before  Vincenzo  brought  the 

S3 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

beautiful  telescopo  to  his  padrone  (who  is  so 
kind  and  never  cross) "  —  this  she  interpolates 
to  mollify  the  effect  of  the  discovery — "I 
myself  peeped  through  it  and  I  saw  them  all 

—  Signorina  Francesca,  the  signora  Delmar" 

—  she  pronounced  it  deliciously — "and  the 
signore  Barone."   A  question  comes  into  my 
eyes  and  she  hastens  to  add,  "Oh,  but  it  was 
only  just  such  a  little  peep!" 

Now  it  cannot  be  a  good  thing  to  permit 
Luisa  to  spend  her  time  spying  on  people  who 
may  become  her  padrone's  friends,  even  though 
he  may  find  advance  information  entertaining. 
Therefore,  I  find  myself  relapsing  by  mental 
leaps  and  bounds  into  my  old  antipathy  for 
telescopes  in  times  of  extreme  peace.  But 
Luisa  is  too  quick  for  me  —  I  suppose  that 
scamp  Vincenzo  has  been  posting  her  —  for 
she  hastens  to  explain. 

'*  The  signore  must  not  think  I  looked 
through  it  to  see  things!"  (She  seems  horrified 
at  the  idea.)  "I  did  not  look  to  see  things;  that 
is  not  the  servant's  place.  Mama  mia,  no!  ' 
Luisa  becomes  vehement.  "No,  I  only  looked 
to  make  very  sure  the  glass  was  clean,  that 

54 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

dust  and  cobwebs  should  not  be  there  to  offend 
the  honorable  eyesight  of  my  padrone." 

This  is  the  first  time  I  have  known  specific 
attention  to  be  paid  the  matter  of  dust  and 
cobwebs  in  all  Italy ;  therefore  I  feel  that  I 
have  learned  something  I  had  not  before 
dreamed  existed  in  the  realm  of  domestic  eco- 
nomy, and  I  accept  the  apology  without  reser- 
vation, for  of  course,  after  all,  I  am  very  glad 
to  find  Luisa  so  careful  of  my  comfort,  and, 
besides,  I  reflect  that  it  settles  my  doubts  as 
to  the  identity  of  Elsie  North's  friend.  More- 
over, nothing  annoys  me  more  than  dust  and 
cobwebs,  and  Luisa's  departure  from  the  tra- 
ditions of  her  land  in  this  respect  leads  me  to 
believe  that  in  her  I  may  have  found,  after  all, 
a  treasure  indeed.  Anyway,  I  am  sure,  now, 
it  was  the  American  lady,  so  I  hurry  Vincenzo 
off  to  her  villa  with  Mrs.  North's  letter  and 
my  card. 

Vincenzo  looks  at  the  card  dubiously. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Vincenzo?"  I  ask. 

He  starts  as  though  caught  in  an  expression 
of  disapproval  that  he  would  hide,  but  which 
torments  him  not  to  express. 

55 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"It  is  only,"  he  stammers,  "it  is  only  — 
only  that  the  corners  are  square.  The  signore 
Tedesco's  visiting-cards  have  round  corners, 
and  so  had  the  cards  of  the  signore  Marchese. 
But  perhaps  this  is  the  new  mode?" 

"The  very  latest  mode!"  I  answer,  im- 
mensely amused.  "The  infinitely  eternal 
mode,  Vincenzo!"  And  then  I  remember  that 
etiquette  on  the  Continent  is  more  or  less  a 
matter  of  geometry,  as  matrimony  is  one  of 
higher  mathematics. 

Thus  relieved,  Vincenzo  sets  forth  on  his 
errand  in  high  feather.  I  watch  his  departure 
from  my  little  terrace,  and  I  hear  him  singing 
in  that  high  falsetto  which  is  only  beautiful 
in  the  Italian  voice,  and  which  strikes  a  reso- 
nant response  in  the  heart  of  the  listener  as  no 
other  singing  in  the  whole  world  just  does  — 
I  listen  to  him  as  he  goes  down  the  path,  trilling 

Vide  'o  mare  quant*  I  bello  !  ^ 
Spira  tantu  sentimente, 
Comme  tu  a  chi  tiene  mente  \ 
Ca  scetato  'o  faie  sunna. 

And  how  beautiful  the  wonderful  sea  is  this 
morning!    I  turn  toward  where  it  stretches 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

forth  from  this  kingdom  of  the  Teleboans, 
where  once  dwelt  the  nymph  Sebethis,  about 
whom  Messer  Virgilio  tells  in  his  rime.  But 
there  seem  to  be  other  nymphs,  too,  for  way 
off  there  I  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  bit  of  the 
strand  by  the  Piccola  Marina,  where  the  sea 
appears  to  be  the  playground  of  a  crowd  of 
splashing  figures.  I  blush  to  find  myself  think- 
ing of  the  telescope,  and  blame  it  all  on  Messer 
Virgilio.  In  fact,  I  turn  away  and  busy  myself 
with  the  geraniums,  as  I  have  seen  Vincenzo 
do.  He  is  certainly  a  master  gardener,  and  I 
am  very  proud  of  him. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  how  beautiful  these 
scarlet  flowers  would  look  in  the  lovely  black 
hair  of  the  Contessa's  sister.  I  prefer  scarlet 
to  crimson,  and  that,  too,  is  why  I  adore  the 
flower  of  the  quince. 

Suddenly  I  am  aware  that  some  one,  with 
the  stealth  of  a  visitor's  conscious  intrusion, 
has  come  into  my  garden.  I  feel  almost  sure 
it  is  the  Herr  Baron,  so  I  do  not  look  up  im- 
mediately. In  fact,  I  can  guess  of  no  one  else 
who  would  snoop  around  here  unbidden,  just 
as  he  used  to  do  in  Siena.  I  shall  come  to  ex- 

57 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

pect  visitors,  plenty  of  them  later  on,  if  Vin- 
cenzo's  skill  keeps  its  standard,  yet  I  reflect 
that  now  I  ought  to  be  let  alone  until  I  am 
settled.  I  do  not  know  why  I  feel  sure  it  is  the 
Baron,  but,  as  I  struggle  to  my  feet,  I  make  up 
my  mind  to  be  only  as  civil  to  him  as  the  tra- 
ditions of  enforced  hospitality  demand.  So  I 
turn  about  with  freezing  dignity  (intensely 
put  out  that  Luisa  should  not  have  minded  the 
garden  door  more  carefully)  and  face  my  un- 
bidden guest  with  frigid  demeanor. 

He  quavers. 

"Bambino  mio!"  I  cry,  startled  completely 
out  of  myself  as  a  thrush  who  is  tumbled  off 
the  nest;  then  I  whistle  one  of  my  own  peculiar 
whistles,  which  always  expresses  happy  sur- 
prise, though  my  enemies  say  it  sounds  like  a 
poor  imitation  of  a  catastrophe.  I  whistle,  and 
exclaim,  "Bambino  mio!  where,  oh,  where  did 
you  drop  from,  little  one?" 

Little  One  has  n't  the  faintest  idea,  or  if  he 
has  conceals  it  intrepidly.  I  look  about,  only 
to  find  that  no  one  else  has  come  with  him. 
He  is  three,  perhaps  four,  and  stands  there 
straight  as  any  soldier.  But  I  guess  he  is 

58 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

barely  recovering  from  the  fright  of  seeing  me 
bob  up  from  beyond  the  phlox  (too  tall  for 
him  to  have  looked  over),  though  I  declare  he 
never  flinched. 

As  for  myself,  I  am  delighted  that  it  is  not 
the  Herr  Baron.  I  might  have  reflected  that 
his  footsteps  would  at  least  have  been  elephan- 
tine. I  have  always  been  famous  for  bring- 
ing up  other  people's  children.  They  never 
do  it  sensibly,  and  I  have  never  understood 
why  they  seem  to  resent  my  excellent  sug- 
gestions. Perhaps  I  shall  have  a  chance,  un- 
hindered, with  this  wee,  olive-skinned  cherub 
who  remains  so  mute,  simply  staring  at  me 
curiously. 

Now  I  pride  myself  on  all  sorts  of  jolly  tricks 
that  usually  provoke  juvenile  mirth  to  the 
very  edge  of  hilarity.  However,  it  is  some- 
times hard  to  know  how  to  begin,  when  taken 
unawares,  especially  if  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  it  would  turn  out  a  Baron.  Nevertheless 
I  pick  up  a  sprig  of  larkspur  and  hand  it  to 
the  Little  One.  He  will  not  take  it.  So  I  do  a 
little  skip-step  that  used  to  send  my  cousin 
Mary's  children  wild  with  delight;  —  he  meets 

59 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

it  with  just  that  shade  of  wonderment  that 
seems  equivalent  to  making  me  feel  I  am  but 
a  sorry  exhibition  after  all.  Therefore  I  pro- 
ceed to  translate  Hey-diddle-diddle  into  Italian 
as  a  coup  de  maitre,  but  he  seems  positively 
bored.  Later  I  learn  that  there  are  neither 
cats  nor  fiddles  on  the  island,  and,  as  he  has 
never  been  away  from  it,  this  may  explain  my 
failure. 

There  is  nothing  left,  then,  but  to  hunt  up 
Luisa,  so  I  reach  out  my  hand  and  invite  him 
to  come  along.  His  baby  face  wreathes  itself 
in  smiles  and  he  clutches  my  finger,  toddling 
along  with  me.  Then  as  a  happy  thought,  I 
lift  him  to  my  shoulders,  and  defer  the  search 
until  we  have  had  a  romp  around  the  garden. 
He  peeps  from  his  vantage  with  those  mis- 
chievous eyes  of  his,  nearly  startling  me  into 
letting  him  fall  as  unexpectedly  he  bursts 
into  voluble  conversation  —  I  had  almost 
imagined  that  Heaven  had  denied  one  of  its 
cherubs  the  gift  of  speech !  Not  that  I  under- 
stand a  single  word  he  utters,  but  instantly  I 
determine  to  throw  aside  Dante  for  baby-talk. 
Never  did  I  yearn  to  know  the  secrets  of  an 

60 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

alien  tongue  as  now  I  do  this  wee  one's  lan- 
guage of  babyhood. 

Soon,  however,  he  comes  to  understand  me, 
now  that  he  is  no  longer  frightened.  Moreover, 
he  is  addressing  me  by  the  reverend  appella- 
tion of  nonno.  Now  I  am  no  one's  grandfather, 
but  I  reflect  that  I  may  seem  a  Methuselah 
to  a  destiny  that  has  run  but  three  or  four 
years  at  the  utmost;  so  I  forgive  him  with  a 
kiss.  He  returns  it  as  though  I  had  earned  it, 
and  I  am  already  hoping  that  Heaven  has  lent 
him  to  Phoebus  to  bring  down  to  me  in  his 
chariot.  Perhaps  he  will  tell  me  his  name  now, 
so  I  ask  him  in  the  dialect  I  am  rapidly  ac- 
quiring under  Luisa's  patient  training.  He 
smiles,  and  because  he  likes  the  fragrance  of 
the  white  carnation  I  am  silly  enough  to  be 
wearing  over  my  ear,  whispers  just  under  it. 

I  start  more  surprised  than  ever.  Never 
have  the  gods  sent  happier  omen  than  in  the 
name  this  wee  one  bears!  I  look  back  at  my 
little  casa  in  swelling  pride;  the  gods  have  out- 
done Italian  politessa  itself,  for  they  have  sent 
their  Baby  Ganymede  from  Olympus  with  the 
christening  cup  of  approval,  blessing  my  hum- 

61 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

ble  abode  with  the  auspicious  sign,  for,  as 
Luisa  comes  running  up,  beaming  with  amuse- 
ment to  find  me  here  with  my  arms  full  of 
infancy,  I  am  able  to  tell  her  they  have  given 
one  name  to  two  treasures,  their  little  son  and 
my  little  villa,  and  I  repeat  it  to  her, — 
Giacinto. 


VI 


"An,  signore,"  she  tells  me,  "you  know  it 
is  the  little  Conte  Roderini,  and  his  family  is 
so  noble,  so  very  noble,"  with  emphasis,  "that 
a  contadina  would  never  dream  of  having  such 
bad  manners  as  to  name  her  bambino  with 
what  almost  belongs  to  the  little  Conte's  fam- 
ily by  right.  And  the  father  —  poor  man!  — 
died  in  the  wicked  war  in  Abyssinia." 

In  this  hint  I  find  that  the  exclusive  bam- 
bino is  part  and  parcel  of  the  very  excellent 
family  Vincenzo  has  already  told  me  about, 
and  I  feel  that  grace  is  lent  to  it  by  the  fact 
that  the  Contessa's  sister  is  under  its  respect- 
able roof. 

"But  the  Contessa  herself  is  also  of  very 
noble  f  amily,"  Luisa  adds,  "of  the  very  noblest, 
signore.  Her  great-grandfather  shot  a  wicked 
Austrian  through  the  heart."  I  am  elated  at 
the  success  of  the  Contessa's  family;  even  if 
the  Conte's  has  exclusive  right  to  a  name,  the 
Contessa's  can  cherish  the  undimmed  memory 
of  one  good  shot. 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Then  this  heavenly  bimbo,  Giacinto,  is  heir 
to  all  that  glory?"  I  ask  Luisa. 

"And  all  that  sorrow,  signore,"  Luisa  an- 
swers. "But  if  he  is  heavenly,  as  the  signore 
says — well,"  —  her  eyes  sparkle  again,  —  "he 
is  heavenly  at  running  away!  Everyone  knows 
that;  San  Costanzo  has  a  busy  time  of  it, — 
and  the  only  child!" 

Without  inquiring  into  the  size  of  the  family, 
which  is  evidently  the  tack  Luisa  is  intending 
to  take,  I  ask  her  (rather  foolishly  I  admit), 
if  she  thinks  Giacinto  has  run  away  this  time. 

"The  signore  must  judge  for  himself!"  At 
which  the  circumspect  Luisa  and  I  both  laugh. 
Perhaps  the  ingenious  gods  have  other  inten- 
tions, after  all :  no  one  has  sent  me  any  let- 
ter of  introduction  to  the  Contessa's  family, 
and  a  daring  thought  comes  to  me  as  I  take 
note  of  the  tiny  bit  of  humanity  illustrissimo, 
drawn  up  before  me  with  such  an  absurd  little 
air  of  dignity  that  I  could  pick  him  up  in  my 
arms  and  almost  smother  him  with  kisses,  were 
it  not  for  that  amazing  little  look  of  disap- 
proval at  anticipated  demonstrativeness  in 
public  that  suddenly  comes  into  his  amazing 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

little  countenance.  Then  I  guess,  instantly, 
that  he  is  wondering  at  Luisa's  familiarity  in 
being  permitted  to  smile  in  his  noble  presence, 
and  at  his  noble  presence,  and  so,  to  avert  a 
storm  at  the  cost  of  my  chagrin,  I  order  her 
back  into  the  house  to  fetch  me  some  bon- 
bons, hidden  away  there,  that  ought  to  please 
the  bimbo  and  restore  confidence,  —  philoso- 
phy never  having  defined  the  time  at  which 
the  heart  of  man  first  begins  to  be  reached 
through  his  stomach. 

Now  I  bought  these  sweets  at  Morgano's 
yesterday;  the  small  pound  cost  me  a  Caprese 
fortune.  Carolina  herself  told  me  no  one  had 
ever  bought  so  much  as  a  pound  of  them  from 
her  in  her  life  before,  and  Carolina,  though 
still  a  great  beauty,  is  no  longer  just  young.  I 
fancy  she  thought  it  a  mistake,  or  that  I  had 
been  overcome  by  the  noon-day  heat,  for, 
noting  my  surprise,  she  volunteered  to  release 
me  from  the  full  extent  of  my  obligation  by 
suggesting  half  the  quantity.  But  it  was  a 
good  lesson  that  after  five  cents'  worth  of 
candy  has  survived  a  voyage  from  London,  or 
a  trip  from  Paris,  it  is  worth  five  times  its 

65 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

native  par  value  in  Italy;  —  I  feel  the  same 
way  about  my  tickets  every  time  I  take  a  con- 
tinental journey  of  any  length.  So  I  could  not 
begrudge  the  sweets  their  valuation,  nor  Caro- 
lina her  enormous  profit;  therefore  I  left  her 
marveling  at  my  prodigality.  However,  I  now 
hold  it  clear  that  Heaven  intended  them  for 
Giacinto;  so  that  is  how  he  comes  to  be  munch- 
ing them  now. 

Presently  our  feast  is  interrupted  by  the 
clanging  of  the  garden  door.  Giacinto  drops 
everything  and  helter-skelters  behind  an  ole- 
ander tree,  fearing  pursuit,  for,  indeed,  that 
delicious  sense  of  his  truant  guilt  tinges  his 
brown-red  cheeks  until  he  looks  like  a  sun- 
kissed  apricot,  head  peeping  out,  eyes  askance, 
through  the  oleander  leaves. 

Fortunately  there  is  no  need  to  fear.  It  is 
only  the  return  of  Vincenzo.  He  brings  back 
a  message  from  Mrs.  Delmar.  Can  I  come 
down  for  tea  at  four?  Of  course  I  can.  I 
shall. 

As  for  Vincenzo,  the  minute  he  spies  the 
piccolo  Conte,  trembling  like  an  olive  leaf  at 
dawn,  he  looks  around  aggravatingly,  as 

66 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

though  he  imagines  still  other  visitors  may  be 
sequestered  in  our  rose  garden,  and  deferen- 
tially pretends  to  tip-toe  away.  Of  course,  I 
am  both  angry  and  annoyed  at  his  imperti- 
nence. Before  I  have  time  to  say  so  he  be- 
comes as  suddenly  contrite,  for  Luisa,  catching 
sight  of  him,  begins  a  violent  scolding  about 
the  coals.  Now  I  have  never  seen  a  stick  of 
wood  nor  a  coal-yard  on  the  island,  and  I  have 
never  attempted  to  guess  what  they  have  been 
cooking  with,  charcoal  being  a  conveniently 
jolly  and  romantic  term  with  which  to  cover 
up  my  ignorance.  I  often  wonder,  however,  if 
they  have  not  had  to  steal  fire  over  here  from 
Olympus  to  keep  going,  only  I  know  that 
could  never  be,  —  there  never  was  an  honester 
man  than  your  Caprese  born,  he  simply  could 
not  steal  anything,  and  thus  escapes  the  fate 
of  every  Prometheus. 

Perhaps,  then,  it  is  for  not  getting  charcoal 
that  Luisa  scolds  Vincenzo;  but  whatever  it 
is  all  about  I  have,  at  last,  to  ask  them  to  stop 
their  verbal  din,  whereat  Giacinto  seems  to 
regain  confidence  in  my  social  standing,  and 
to  feel  that  my  stern  assertion  of  mastership 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

counteracts  any  earlier  display  of  weakness 
on  my  part  in  having  let  Luisa  smile  at  us. 

Anyway  he  steps  forward,  and  I  hand  him 
a  white  verbena,  which  he  accepts  with  noble 
grace,  tucking  it  back  of  his  little  ear,  on  the 
left  side,  just  as  the  grown-up  gallants  are  ex- 
pected to  do.  I  remember  this  trick  at  Gir- 
genti,  and  wonder  how  it  has  traveled  north, 
—  perhaps  with  Ulysses. 

"Do  you  hear  those  beautiful  bells,  Giacinto 
mio?"  I  ask  him,  when  Vincenzo  and  Luisa 
have  decided  to  cease  monopolizing  all  sound. 
"They  are  telling  us  that  the  Contessa,  your 
beloved  mother,  will  soon  be  despatching  her 
entire  household  to  descend  upon  us  if  we  do 
not  anticipate  this  by  going  home  to  throw 
ourselves  contritely  on  her  mercy." 

I  do  not  like  to  hint  too  definitely,  in  simple 
language,  that  I  know  he  has  run  away,  there- 
fore I  put  it  in  the  most  literary  form  possible. 
Perhaps,  I  persuade  myself,  he  has  heard  of 
China,  and  thinks  it  is  I,  for  my  first  journey 
to  Persia,  at  the  age  of  two,  was  accomplished 
in  much  the  same  manner,  within  the  space 
of  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes,  mean  time, 

68 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

from  America.  That,  however,  was  a  miracle 
of  locomotion  standing  as  nothing  compared 
to  another  which,  at  the  age  of  four,  enabled 
me  to  reach  the  North  Pole,  and  to  find  it 
comfortably  and  conveniently  located  under 
a  tall  sunflower  stalk,  where  the  relief  party 
found  me  asleep  an  hour  later,  preciously 
near  being  stung  by  an  honest  hornet,  who  had 
left  his  hermitage  aloft  to  investigate  the  inva- 
sion. Since  I  have  grown  up  I  have  never  had 
journeys  half  so  delightful,  excursions  so  thrill- 
ing, or  travels  so  wonderful.  For  this  reason  I 
cannot  bear  to  dispel  the  dear  little  delusions 
Giacinto  maybe  having,  particularly  if  he  hap- 
pens to  think  I  am  Mongolia,  and  so,  almost 
hoping  he  does,  I  decide  to  live  up  to  the  role. 
Therefore  I  ask  him  to  climb  over  the  Great 
Wall  with  me,  that  we  may  traverse  the  Tar- 
tary  country  without,  until  we  may  reach  the 
Himalayas,  whence,  I  explain,  if  good  luck  at- 
tend us,  we  may  hope,  by  easy  stages,  to  reach 
the  palazzo  where  our  Contessa  mother  and 
our  Contessa  mother's  sister  will,  according 
to  computations,  just  about  be  awaiting  our 
tardy  coming.  : ,  ' 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Having  planned  it  all  and  charted  it  on 
the  sands  of  the  fountain  path,  we  give  Luisa 
and  Vincenzo  a  few  directions,  leaving  them 
grinning  in  their  silly  fashion,  for  our  imme- 
diate departure  from  the  Celestial  Kingdom 
seems  to  amuse  them  beyond  reason;  at  least, 
they  cease  the  muffled  squabble  about  the 
charcoal,  and  behave  as  any  husband  and  wife 
should  behave,  who  have  the  good  fortune  to 
witness  the  sudden  metamorphosis  from  gas- 
tronomy to  geology,  which  surely  is  no  more 
remarkable  than  the  turning  of  Mrs.  Lot  to  a 
pillar  of  salt. 

Oblivious  of  their  attitude,  we  take  a  last 
look  at  them  standing  there  in  the  vanishing 
kingdom,  and  I  begin  to  explain  to  Giacinto  a 
few  of  the  perils  which  reasonably  we  may  ex- 
pect to  encounter  along  the  route,  not  that  he 
understands  me,  but  conversation  is  necessary 
to  the  exploit.  Then,  at  a  particularly  arid 
spot  in  the  desert  of  the  Via  Tragara,  I  turn 
into  a  camel  and  Giacinto  enjoys  the  feat 
hugely.  In  fact,  I  am  quite  proud  of  it  myself, 
for  every  one  stares  at  us,  which  makes  us  feel 
important,  and  we  enjoy  that,  too,  though 

70 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

alone  I  am  of  a  naturally  retiring  disposi- 
tion. Suddenly  a  cloud  spreads  over  the  fair 
skies  of  the  bambino's  blessed  countenance. 
Consulting  my  invisible  book  of  magic,  as 
a  perfectly  proper  camel  should,  I  guess 
what  the  matter  is,  and  whisper  my  conclu- 
sions in  Giacinto's  ear,  —  only  a  camel  could 
have  managed  it.  Giacinto  nods  his  head  in 
confirmation  of  my  ingenuity.  Therefore  as 
we  approach  Tessa  Monceno's  coral-shop  we 
pause  to  buy  an  especially  efficacious  bit,  a 
sure  charm  against  sudden  assaults  on  the  per- 
son, and  we  hang  it  around  our  neck.  Surely 
with  a  beautiful  coral  butterfly  dangling  from 
a  shining  silver  chain  why  need  one  fear  Ulys- 
sesian  unpleasantnesses  at  homecoming?  The 
cloud  disappears,  for  one  does  n't;  so,  light- 
heartedly,  two  climb  up  the  stairway  of  the 
wonderful  old  Norman-time  palazzo,  where  a 
lovely  maiolica  madonna  (perhaps  brought 
down  from  Deruta  by  some  early-day  con- 
queror) smiles  reassuringly  at  us  from  the 
second  landing,  which,  of  course,  defines  the 
boundaries  of  our  Caucasus. 

From  the  top  of  the  third  landing  another 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

lovely  face  looks  down,  but  it  is  not  a  maiolica 
face  of  any  Lady  of  Sorrows.  It  is  a  very  real 
and  wonderfully  lovely  face  set  in  a  mass  of 
soft  black  hair,  caught  up  by  a  crown  of  jes- 
samine, while  the  streaming  sunlight,  finding 
its  way  through  the  little  panes  of  the  window 
just  back  of  it,  lends  a  glory  of  golden  light 
to  frame  the  lovely  vision.  Presently  we  are 
high  enough  to  see  two  bewitching  eyes,  and 
Mino  da  Fiesole  never  modeled  sweeter  lips 
to  kiss  than  those  parted  with  exquisite  pre- 
cision to  greet  the  roguish  little  stranger  who, 
the  minute  he  sees  their  owner,  deserts  his 
faithful  camel  without  compunction,  and  with 
a  little  gladsome  cry  to  his  Zia  Francesca, 
throws  himself  into  her  arms. 

"Oh,  my  naughty  darling  Giacinto!"  she 
exclaims,  hugging  him  to  her  breast,  "Where 
have  you  been,  you  wicked  little  bimbo! 
Mamma  is  frightened  to  death,  and  looks 
everywhere  for  you ! " 

Hearing  Mamma  at  the  piano  within  I  con- 
clude the  angel  of  the  landing  is  exaggerating, 
though  a  most  natural  thing  to  do  under  the 
circumstances,  I  suppose.  As  for  Bimbo  Gia- 

72 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

cinto,  he  lifts  up  the  coral  butterfly  protect- 
ingly,  and  his  Aunt  Francesca  bursts  into  a 
merry  laugh.  Then  I  introduce  myself  and 
explain  the  situation  as  best  I  can,  though  all 
my  precious  Italian  seems  recalcitrant,  and  I 
stumble  along  in  embarrassment,  until  I  realize 
I  am  saying  nothing  intelligible,  and  so  depart 
in  mortification  down  those  endless  stairs. 
Giacinto  sets  up  a  wail,  complimentary  to  my 
plight.  That  he  should  care  to  do  so  on  my 
account  soothes  me  somewhat,  but  it  causes 
the  piano  to  stop.  Whereupon  the  sincerity 
of  his  grief  at  parting  is  unmistakable,  and  I, 
too,  feel  somewhat  desolate  as  I  reach  the  bot- 
tom step.  So  I  look  up,  by  way  of  parting,  and 
there  I  see  the  Contessa's  sister  and  Giacinto's 
Contessa  Mamma  peeping  over  the  stone  bal- 
ustrade. I  cannot  tip  my  hat,  for,  being  a 
camel,  I  have  left  mine  behind,  and  so  I  have 
none  to  tip.  I  can  only  throw  a  kiss  to  the 
weeping  Giacinto,  and  wonder  if  ever  another 
beast-of-burden  has  been  so  pestered  with 
conventions. 

Presently  I  hear  the  Contessa  Mamma  at 
the  piano  again.  I  look  up  as  I  pass  under  the 

73 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

balcony  and  I  imagine  some  one  is  peeping 
out.  Giacinto,  possibly,  but  I  can  take  no  risk, 
so  I  trudge  on  home,  marveling  at  the  ways 
of  caravans. 


VII 

WHEN  I  am  home  again  Luisa  and  Vincenzo 
look  at  one  another  slyly.  Then  Vincenzo  goes 
out  into  the  garden. 

Presently  he  is  singing  a  silly  little  song  that 
seems  to  amuse  Luisa  immensely,  though  I  do 
not  listen  to  it.  If  I  did,  I  would  have  to  be 
angry,  —  instead  I  am  pleased,  quite. 

As  I  entice  my  spaghetti  into  a  little  coil 
with  the  prongs  of  my  fork,  thankful  that 
Luisa  does  not  leave  it  raw  (as  the  Paduans 
do),  I  turn  over  in  my  mind  my  going  to  Mrs. 
Delmar's.  It  would  be  rather  amusing  if  the 
Contessa's  sister  should  happen  to  be  there! 
But  would  it  be  so  amusing  if  I  found  myself 
with  all  my  fine  Italian  running  helter-skelter 
out  of  my  head  as  it  did  this  morning?  I  am 
diffident  —  though  Jack  North  insists  the 
bronze  doors  of  San  Giovanni's  can't  hold  a 
candle  to  my  sterling  qualities  —  nevertheless 
I  am  also  sociable.  Therefore  I  decide  to  har- 
bor no  fear. 

75 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Since  lunching  there  has  been  nothing  in 
particular  to  do  but  lounge  around  and  count 
the  bells  of  the  quarters  ringing  out  from  the 
little  campanile  on  the  piazza;  I  am  not  in  a 
working  mood.  Finally  I  pick  out  a  propitious 
hour,  and  in  company  with  the  music  of  the 
bells  start  forth  to  explore  my  way  to  the 
house  of  the  agreeable  Boston  lady,  whose 
husband  was  n't. 

On  my  way  I  pass  San  Stefano's,  madre  chi- 
esa  of  my  little  island  —  and  I  cannot  resist 
stepping  inside,  as  I  did  yesterday.  In  these 
fifteen  hundred  years  they  have  furbished  it 
up  quite  a  bit,  I  am  told,  since  Giovanni,  the 
prattling  prelate  of  Sorrento,  refused  to  take 
the  trouble  of  coming  over  to  consecrate  it. 
What  a  fuss  there  was  about  the  matter!  They 
say  the  bewildered  old  Abbot  Savino  had  to 
get  Gregory  the  Great  to  put  on  his  papal  pres- 
sure, but  whitewash  mixes  up  history,  so  one 
cannot  be  sure  of  there  being  any  truth  in 
these  entertaining  scandals. 

Here  I  come  upon  Luisa's  cousin,  the  sara- 
cenic-looking  person  who  sells  Neapolitan  pot- 
tery in  a  little  corner  under  the  passage-way. 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

She  seems  to  be  imploring  help  from  the  entire 
hierarchy  of  heaven,  to  judge  from  theglibness 
of  her  sanctimonious  appeals.  And  as  I  draw 
within  hearing  I  guess  the  trouble  on  her  soul; 
I  have  heard  all  about  it  from  Luisa.  A  fort- 
night ago  the  cousin  was  so  unfortunate  as  to 
lose  a  precious  family  relic,  none  other  than 
a  tooth  from  the  revered  jawbone  of  her  old 
grandmother.  I  cannot  help  smiling  at  the 
tale,  but  Luisa  is  very  serious  about  it. 

It  seems  the  remarkable  grandmother  lived 
to  an  incredible  old  age,  even  for  one  among 
these  insular  centenarians,  and  that  long  be- 
fore her  last  days  she  had  lost  each  of  the  pre- 
cious teeth  that  Madame  Nature  had  given 
to  add  distinction  to  the  renowned  beauty  of 
her  youth;  that  is,  she  had  lost  all  but  one. 
This  remained  to  the  last,  —  solid,  conspicu- 
ous, and  uncomfortable.  I  doubt  if  the  unicorn 
or  the  wild  boar  were  more  afflicted,  but, 
whereas  they  were  poor  unintelligent  beasts, 
Luisa's  cousin's  grandmother  understood  how 
remarkable  a  thing  it  was  that  this  tooth 
should  keep  company  with  her  hundredth 
birthday,  and  found  comfort  in  the  fact;  nay, 

77 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

even  more  than  that,  she  regarded  its  pos- 
session as  miraculous, — an  opinion  shared  by 
her  gossips.  Indeed  no  one  dreamed  of  passing 
Bettina  Costantino's  door  without  first  stop- 
ping to  inquire  for  the  tooth  of  the  grand- 
mother. But  alas !  One  fine  day  Eternity  out- 
sped  Time,  and  Bettina  Costantino  breathed 
her  last.  Delicacy  forbids  my  suggesting  how 
it  happened  that  her  famous  tooth  did  not  fol- 
low her  to  Paradise,  or  how  the  relic  was  saved 
to  be  a  solace  to  those  she  had  left  behind  her 
in  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow;  yet  some 
there  are  who  have  especial  veneration  for 
such  things. 

After  that  Luisa's  cousin  became  chief  cus- 
todian of  the  relic,  having  Zello,  the  village 
Cellini,  mount  it  in  silver,  that  it  might  be 
worn  on  grand  occasions,  —  a  wedding  or  a 
festa,  —  hitched  to  a  little  silver  chain  around 
the  neck,  where  every  one  might  see  it.  Alas, 
careless  neck!  Unmindful  of  its  precious 
charge  it  had  permitted  the  clasp  to  come  un- 
done, and  the  treasured  reliquia  to  slip  loose. 

But  I  leave  Luisa's  cousin  at  prayer,  and 
though  I  suppose  I  ought  to  stop  to  intercede 

78 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

for  her,  for  Charity's  sweet  sake,  I  glance  at 
my  watch,  and  like  many  another  sinner,  find 
I  have  not  time  for  prayer  and  pastime  both, 
so  I  hurry  on  my  way. 

The  little  passage  leading  from  San  Stefano 
skirts  a  walled  precipice,  lined,  along  its  outer 
side,  with  tiny  shops  that  cling  to  the  crest  of 
an  eminence  like  nesting  summer  swallows. 
Gay-colored  strips  of  patterned  cloth  to  wind 
around  bambini  hang  outside,  and  a  little  fur- 
ther on  is  the  pottery  shop  of  Luisa's  discon- 
solate cousin.  This  is  my  first  glimpse  of  the 
curious  arcaded  strada,  and  I  am  fascinated 
by  its  mysterious  windings.  Midway  a  piaz- 
zetta  brings  me  out  from  all  the  staring  white- 
wash of  the  passage  into  the  sunshine,  which 
makes  it  dazzling  under  those  skies  of  robin's- 
egg  blue  that  stretch  illimitably  above  a  sea 
of  lapis  lazuli.  One  does  not  guess  the  infinite 
number  of  blues  that  can  tint  heaven's  arc, 
nor  the  variant  colors  of  the  seas  until  fortune 
brings  him  here.  Although  I  trot  along  in 
high  feather,  I  meet  almost  a  chance  for  home- 
sickness just  a  bit  farther  on  when,  to  the  right, 
of  a  sudden  I  come  within  the  range  of  the  cry 

79 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

of  our  own  blessed  eagle.  There  he  is,  fierce 
and  gilt,  and  immobile,  clutching  his  clawsful 
of  arrows  to  repel  outsiders,  who  would  peek  in 
through  the  chinks  of  the  iron  gate.  This,  then, 
I  discover,  is  the  American  consulate.  I  am 
brave,  and  my  heart  gives  a  bound,  for  I  feel 
I  belong  to  it,  and  that  a  bit  of  it  belongs  to 
me.  Just  because  I  do,  and  then  because  no 
one  is  looking,  I  stand  on  tip-toe  and  crane  my 
neck  for  a  look  at  the  premises.  I  had  no  idea 
that  any  one  had  a  consul  here,  and  I  am 
enormously  curious  to  see  what  in  the  world 
one  could  find  to  keep  him  busy. 

There  through  the  chinks  of  the  gate  a  mini- 
ature court  presents  itself  to  my  unmannered 
intrusion,  and  just  beyond  it  I  know  there  is 
a  garden.  Now  I  love  gardens,  so  I  look  again ; 
but  immediately  I  jump  down  and  hurry  on, 
—  Heaven  has  punished  my  curiosity!  Pan- 
dora could  not  have  been  more  chagrined !  The 
garden  gate  has  opened,  and  there,  looking 
straight  at  the  spot  where  my  eyes  have  just 
been  glued,  stands  none  other  than  the  Herr 
Baron,  last  of  all  persons  in  the  world,  I  angrily 
tell  myself,  it  is  pleasant  to  come  unexpectedly 

80 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

or  expectedly  across.  I  am  almost  sure  he  saw 
me,  that  is,  he  looked  surprised  and  frowned; 
and  I  feel  that  the  eagle  has  played  me  an  un- 
kind trick  in  not  affording  better  protection 
to  a  countryman.  I  am  convinced,  now,  that 
the  Baron  spends  all  his  time  in  getting  into 
my  way,  to  frustrate  my  tranquillity  —  first 
Siena,  then  the  telescope,  and  now  the  con- 
sulate. Anyway  I  shall  never  believe  the  Con- 
tessa's sister  can  care  a  straw  about  him.  If 
all  this  really  keeps  on  I  shall  come  to  distrust 
the  cribbage-playing  uncle  most  thoroughly, 
and  I  begin  to  wonder  what  Mrs.  Delmar  will 
think  of  him. 

Yet  it  is  somewhat  comforting,  as  I  look 
furtively  back,  to  find  the  Baron  is  not  toiling 
up  the  hill  after  me.  Were  he  up  to  anything 
of  the  sort  I  might  be  tempted  to  roll  a  stone 
rattling  down  the  hill  on  his  unwelcome  head, 
following  a  practice  of  those  early  days  when 
these  islanders  dropped  boulders  down  upon 
the  pirates  who  were  attempting  to  regain  the 
land  below  them.  Indeed  I  feel  that  I  am  be- 
coming very  Italian. 

On  the  other  hand  if  we  meet  he  may  not 
81 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

recall  Siena,  the  little  old  ladies  from  England, 
and  his  penchant  for  buns.  In  that  case  I  shall 
have  to  begin  all  over  again.  All  this  throws 
me  into  the  mood  of  thinking  of  all  my  yester- 
days, but  before  I  can  wonder  about  my  to- 
morrows, I  find  myself  outside  the  door  of  the 
Villa  Minerva,  over  whose  walls  hang  festoons 
of  wistaria  leaves,  while  mahogany-colored 
gilliflowers  here  lend  an  old-fashionedness  to 
the  perennial  youth  of  even  ancientry  itself. 
When  I  pull  away  at  the  handle,  the  bell 
inside  fairly  gurgles  sound,  and  I  hear  pat- 
tering steps  hurrying  down  a  stone  stairway, 
crossing  a  court,  and,  after  some  one  fumbles 
awhile  at  the  lock,  I  find  myself  admitted  into 
an  inviting  little  garden-court,  just  such  a  one 
as  long  ago  good  Messer  Tasso,  over  there  in 
Sorrento,  might  have  loved  to  write  about. 
Perhaps  he  did,  for  later  I  find  out  this  old 
villa  stands  much  as  it  did  in  his  romantic  day. 
Quite  round  the  square  of  a  court  runs  a  brick 
patterned  pavement,  bordered  by  the  gar- 
den, which  is  filled  with  gorgeous  flowers ;  the 
fragrance  of  the  Freesia  blossoms  of  spring's 
fleeting  days  seems  to  haunt  the  summer  of 

82 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

this  abode.  Curiously  it  pervades  everything. 
The  lemon  trees  and  the  oleanders  meet  over- 
head, forming  an  arcade  far  lovelier  than 
any  made  pergola,  encircling  a  wizardish  pear 
tree.  I  have  no  pear  trees  at  Villa  Giacinto, 
and  instantly  I  know  I  must  have  one.  There 
is  no  tree  that  quite  takes  its  place  in  the 
whole  land  of  romance.  Whenever  I  see  one 
I  think  of  that  old  nursery  rhyme  I  once 
learned  out  of  a  little  book  my  Uncle  Rufus 
remembered  to  send  me  on  the  occasion  of  my 
seventh  birthday,  an  act  that  sent  me  into  the 
seventh  heaven  of  appreciation  (of  the  book, 
I  must  admit,  for  as  I  have  explained,  I  never 
knew  my  Uncle  Rufus,  and  the  sense  of  spirit- 
ual gratitude  had  not  then  been  developed). 
It  was  the  one  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been 
known  to  do  anything  for  anybody.  I  have 
afterward  thought  it  was  a  mistake,  a  delusion 
he  labored  under,  perhaps,  that  he  might  bar- 
gain with  eternity,  as  did  the  old  man  who 
whirled  into  heaven  on  the  memory  of  the 
humming-top.  Perhaps  he  made  me  his  heir 
on  the  same  principle.  It  will  always  remain 
a  mystery  to  me,  and  I  begin  to  feel  ashamed 

83 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

of  myself  for  being  absolutely  sincere  in  the 
matter.  Indeed  it  is  sometimes  a  temptation 
to  affect  sentiment  on  the  side,  and  appear 
grateful,  as  I  suppose  I  should,  instead  of  ac- 
cepting it  all  as  a  matter  of  course;  and  I  doubt 
if  any  one  on  the  face  of  the  earth  more  needed 
to  have  his  nest  feathered  than  I  did! 

But  I  soon  forget  lemon  trees  and  sour 
great-uncles,  as  the  sprightly  and  hospitable 
lizards  in  their  green  coats  skip  like  animated 
twigs  from  crannies  in  the  gray  old  garden  wall 
and  scamper  over  to  welcome  me.  I  shall 
never  forget  my  first  repugnance  to  them; 
Vincenzo  would  feel  the  same  about  squirrels. 
But  now  I  have  come  to  love  to  watch  these 
harmless  little  creatures,  which  means  that  I 
am  becoming  very  much  of  a  Caprese,  though, 
by  and  by,  I  must  stop  my  ears  to  the  sweet 
voice  of  Doing  Nothing,  and  become  furiously 
busy  with  the  things  I  have  planned  to  do.  I 
have  to  confess  to  myself  that  I  am  not  a  cup 
from  the  well-font  of  genius,  since  attics  never 
inspired  me  as  they  did  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and 
my  book  bills  have  always  been  enormous. 
That  alone,  since  Walter  Pater  set  the  fashion 

84 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

against  it,  is  said  to  be  a  hopeless  sign.  So  if  I 
would  accomplish  anything  I  must  work  hard 
for  it. 

As  I  cross  the  court  I  remember  Luisa  told 
me  this  morning  that  Mrs.  Delmar  knows 
every  one  worth  knowing  in  Europe,  and  I  im- 
agine Luisa  is  especially  hoping  I  will  find  a 
Crown  Princess  or  two  here  this  afternoon.  I 
hope  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  knew  a  Crown 
Prince  once,  and  he  seemed  to  me  very  much 
like  a  parcel  sent  home  on  approval;  a  Crown 
Princess  would  get  on  my  nerves  for  pity  at 
her  stupid  lot.  Instead  of  sharing  Luisa's  am- 
bitions for  me,  I  have  a  foolish  hope  that  I 
shall  find  the  Contessa's  sister  at  the  top  of 
these  old  steps  I  am  climbing,  to  find  her  on 
the  roof  terrace,  not,  this  time,  waiting  for  a. 
prodigal  nephew,  but  with  amused  expectation, 
perhaps,  of  meeting  her  prodigal  nephew's  pet 
camel.  I  picture  to  myself  her  surprise  and  the 
fun  we  shall  have  over  it;  so,  having  thrown 
myself  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  anticipation, 
I  am  in  a  very  jolly  frame  of  mind  as  I  mount 
the  last  step.  A  clandestine  peep  out  of  the 
tiny  window  near  the  top  reveals  the  fact  that 

85 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

the  villa's  walls  rise  with  the  side  of  a  minia- 
ture precipice;  below  one  can  look  into  a  vine- 
yard garden.  I  do  not  need  to  be  told  the  casa 
is  as  old  as  European  history  itself.  The  spirit 
of  its  genius  loci  is  everywhere  in  the  air.  I  sniff 
with  exhilaration.  Then  I  find  myself  on  the 
house-top. 


VIII 

WHAT  Boston  and  the  other  attributes  of 
her  nativity  have  done  for  Mrs.  Delmar  are 
not  disagreeably  apparent;  she  is  more  like 
duchess  or  queen  of  fairy-story  land.  I  say 
duchess  or  queen  upon  reflection,  because  every 
damsel  under  thirty  I  put  in  the  princess  class, 
every  dame  over  eighty  in  the  fairy-godmother 
one,  which  leaves  me  noncommittal  about  the 
rest. 

The  little  touch  of  sadness  in  her  quiet  per- 
fect eyes  which  I  notice  as  she  stretches  forth 
her  hand  to  welcome  me,  is  the  sadness  of  sor- 
row that  can  have  had  no  regret.  I  imagine  it 
is  all  one  needs  to  say  about  the  Lieutenant- 
Colonel.  Her  beautiful  hair  has  just  begun  to 
borrow  the  whiteness  of  the  snows  of  Etna; 
her  voice  is  as  silvery-toned  as  the  song  of  a 
Tuscan  girl,  and  yet  as  directly  unwavering  as 
the  voice  of  a  mother  of  emperors.  Yet  I  would 
know  her  to  be  my  countrywoman,  though  her 
manner  is  almost  born  to  the  ancient  traditions 

87 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

of  the  land,  for  there  are  certain  subtle  things 
—  the  realest  ones,  after  all  —  that  expatria- 
tion cannot  obliterate. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Allen,  you  see  I  have 
heard  all  about  you  from  the  Norths,"  —  I 
feign  incredulity  —  "oh,  but  I  have,  very 
many  times.  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it!  And 
they  say  such  nice  things  of  you  that  you  must 
be  very  good;  in  fact,  quite  so,  to  live  up  to 
their  account  of  you.  I  am  not  just  sure  they 
do  not  expect  you  to  be  canonized  or  some- 
thing!" 

lit  is  a  gracious  reception;  besides,  I  am  flat- 
tered to  be  suspected  of  sanctity  a  second  time. 
However,  I  protest  that  I  am  merely  respect- 
able, and  that  my  only  cleverness  consists  in 
an  ability  to  conceal  my  stupidity.  We  are  at 
the  tea-making  point.  I  bless  her  for  not  in- 
terrupting with  a  "one  lump,  and  cream?  Or 
lemon?"  question,  as  so  many  people  do  when 
one's  conversation  about  one's  self  becomes 
particularly  interesting.  Indeed,  I  know  of 
nothing  in  the  world  which  so  exasperates  me, 
when  I  feel  like  becoming  agreeably  informa- 
tive, as  being  checked  by  food  questions  over 

88 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

table.  So  inwardly,  as  I  chat  on,  I  praise  Mrs. 
Delmar's  restraint. 

"I  once  knew  a  person  who  was  immensely 
clever,  but  his  consciousness  of  it  all  really 
forced  him  to  affect  stupidity,  because  he  had 
such  perfect  manners.  This  had  the  most  de- 
pressing effect  of  making  every  one  around 
him  feel  that  a  martyr  was  being  adjusted  to 
his  environment,  and  I  am  not  sure  I  did  not 
resent  it! 

"Rather  pathetic  of  him,"  I  comment,  "but 
a  wretched  sacrifice,  don't  you  think,  of  every 
one  concerned?  I  always  say,  if  one  is  not 
satisfied  with  himself  he  has  no  business  to 
be  inflicting  the  rest  of  humanity  by  trying 
the  made-over  garment  on  them  God  probably 
thought  was  good  enough  for  him  as  it  stood 
in  the  first  place.  That  is  why  a  good,  honest 
bore  always  finds  a  niche  in  society  and  is 
missed  when  anything  happens  to  him;  at 
least,  he  has  not  covered  up  his  virtues  for  the 
purpose  of  annihilating  conversation." 

"Really,  Mr.  Allen,  I  believe  you  are  a  phil- 
anthropist!" I  laugh  to  myself  and  think  of 
my  forlorn  old  Uncle  Rufus.  "You  not  only 

89 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

are  willing  to  lend  your  tolerance,  but  you  give 
encouragement." 

"Then  I  practise  my  philanthropy  on  my- 
self," I  suggest. 

"Oh,  but  you  won't  need  to,"  she  laughs, 
"for  you  are  a  very  good  missionary,  too,  so 
with  all  contriteness  I  shall  try  to  reform. 
Anyway,  it  would  be  selfish,  would  n't  it,  not 
to?  You  know,  over  here,  bores  are  so  rare 
that  one  almost  forgets  there  ever  were  any; 
so  when  one  comes  along  I  have  to  be  careful, 
very  careful!"  Her  eyes  are  laughing  at  my 
pose  of  discomfiture,  though  I  am  very  sure 
she  guesses  I  feel  wonderfully  at  home  and  am 
enjoying  it  all  immensely.  I  look  up  ques- 
tioningly.  "I  think,"  she  adds,  "I  shall  have 
to  begin  my  own  reformation  by  sending  to 
have  the  Baron  over  for  tea." 

"Then  you,  too,  do  not  like  the  Baron?" 
I  ask,  really  a  bit  perplexed  at  this  unexpected 
manner  of  bringing  him  up. 

"Not  like  the  Baron! "she  exclaims.  "Why, 
I  adore  him!" 

"Then  why  make  a  penance  of  him?" 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  see,"  she  declares  eva- 
90 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

sively,  "it  is  I  who  have  learned  better;  be- 
sides, you  know,  he  is  the  fiance  of  my  dear 
Francesca"  — 

"The  Contessa's  sister?"  I  interrupt. 

"Of  course  you  know  her,  then?" 

I  am  half  suspicious  that  Luisa  and  Vincenzo 
have  been  chatting  with  Mrs.  Delmar's 
kitchen,  to  whom  they  are  distantly  related, 
and  that  the  kitchen  has  been  whispering 
things  to  the  birds  around  Mrs.  Delmar's 
roof-tree.  But  I  repress  my  curiosity. 

"I  am  a  thousand  times  sorry,  Mrs.  Del- 
mar,  that  I  do  not." 

Then  I  tell  her  the  little  story  of  Giacinto, 
discreetly  refraining  from  mentioning  the  bal- 
cony incident  or  from  dwelling  too  much  on 
the  episode  of  the  stair-landing.  I  do  not  wish 
Mrs.  Delmar  to  imagine  me  a  poet  always 
tumbling  head  and  heels  into  love,  and  then 
making  verses  about  it.  A  poet  I  may  be,  but 
I  am  not  head  and  heels  in  love  with  any  one, 
and  as  I  do  not  remember  ever  having  wished 
to  make  a  more  sensible  impression  on  any  one 
than  I  do  on  Mrs.  Delmar  this  very  hour,  I 
become  circumspect  in  my  narrative. 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"And  so,  Mrs.  Delmar,  I  have  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  ladies  through  Giacinto's  proclivity 
for  unexpected  pilgrimages  to  uncanonized 
saints!" 

"What  a  darling  he  is!"  she  laughs.  "Now 
I  am  sure  I  shall  like  you.  You  see,  we  have 
all  discovered  that  Giacinto  has  the  most 
wonderful  faculty  of  sizing  one  up.  So  when 
we  are  in  doubt  we  look  to  Giacinto,  our  ora- 
cle. He  quite  outdoes  the  Palladino." 

"Is  he  always  right?"  I  ask,  immensely  re- 
lieved to  feel  that  I  may  have  stood  the  test. 

"And  absolutely  loyal,"  she  rejoins,  vastly 
amused  to  be  taking  tea  with  a  camel.  "And, 
my  dear  Mr.  Cam — "  she  stops  short  in  con- 
fusion and  I  burst  out,  somewhat  rudely 
I  fear,  for  she  has  begun  with  such  serious- 
ness the  slip  is  ridiculously  delightful.  "Oh, 
Mr.  Allen,  forgive  me,  please!"  and  she  looks 
almost  frightened  for  fear  my  feelings  have 
been  hurt. 

I  maliciously  accuse  her  of  abstraction. 

"How  absurd  and  rude  of  me,"  she  cries, 
"forgive  me!" 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  forgiveness,  dear 
92 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

lady!  I  am  taking  it  as  an  immense  compli- 
ment to  my  prowess  in  magic,  and  you  know 
the  Beast  turned  into  a  prince  after  all." 

"That  is  no  reason  why  I  should  have  called 
the  prince  a  —  a  camel,  even  to  gratify  his 
vanity,"  she  laughs.  "Besides,  I  was  thinking 
of  the  Baron." 

"Oh,  then  I  have  a  competitor?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,  I  only  mean  that 
because  I  was  thinking  of  the  Baron,  I  — " 

"Don't  try,"  I  plead,  like  a  mild  and  kindly 
patriarch.  "  It  was  unfair  in  me  to  be  so  frivo- 
lous about  so  serious  a  matter." 

"The  camel?"  she  asks  mischievously.  . 

"No,  the  Baron." 

"Then  you  do  know  the  Baron?" 

"Awfully  well,"  I  answer,  now  almost  cer- 
tain she  has  known  it  all  the  while.  "I  once 
sat  at  table  with  him  and  watched  him  eat 
buns,  —  all  the  buns.  The  Baron's  virtues  are 
centred  in  his  table  manners.  He  has  n't 
any." 

She  laughs  again,  pouring  me  another  cup 
of  deliciously  brewed  tea.  "I'm  afraid  you 
know  the  Baron  very  well!" 

93 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

She  picks  up  her  embroidery-frame  and 
holds  up  a  tangled  mass  of  colored  silks,  seek- 
ing a  thread  of  gold  for  her  needle.  "You  see 
I  might  have  been  very  useful  to  Joseph,"  she 
explains  ingeniously,  "  instead  of  that  I  do  not 
even  emulate  the  good  Comtesse  de  Bayeux. 
I  simply  embroider  foolish  little  things  against 
Caprese  wedding  times,  for  they  love  useless- 
ness  here,  and  adore  such  trifles."  I  cannot 
believe  this  in  its  literal  sense,  for  Luisa  has 
already  told  me  all  the  wonderful  things  Mrs. 
Delmar  is  always  doing  for  the  needy  and  I 
have  learned  that  many  a  little  Caprese  bam- 
bino owes  its  ability  to  appear  in  public  in 
other  than  its  birthday  suit  to  my  hostess's 
generous  needle.  However  I  cannot  make  her 
appear  seamstress  to  the  province  by  protest- 
ing with  facts. 

"The  Countess  Matilda,"  I  can  only  say, 
"owes  her  fame  to  our  sense  of  antiquity, 
while  you,  dear  Mrs.  Delmar,  may  owe  yours 
to  a  sense  of  futurity." 

She  looks  blankly  at  me,  with  a  question 
forming  on  her  lips. 

"That  was  a  very  stilted  compliment, 
94 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

wasn't  it?"  I  say,  trying  to  disentangle 
myself.  "A  phrase  like  a  pyrotechnical  set- 
piece." 

"Which  wouldn't  go  off  properly!"  She 
is  amused  by  my  confusion,  which  is  real  this 
time.  I  have  to  admit  it  is  so. 

"Did  it  mean  anything?" 

"No,  it  did  n't,  but  I  meant  it  to,"  I  confess. 

"I  know  it,  and  that  is  why  I  dared  to  tease 
you." 

She  takes  up  her  silks  again.  "Do  you 
know,"  she  tells  me,  "I  have  a  premonition." 

I,  too,  hear  a  heavy  shuffle  across  the  court, 
for  the  bell  was  ringing  a  minute  ago,  and  the 
gate  has  just  clicked  to. 

"Yes?  Of  what?" 

"That  it  is  — "  She  pauses  provokingly. 

"Is—?" 

"The  Baron!" 

I  rush  to  the  parapet  and  look  over. 

"It  is!"  I  give  confirmation  with  mock 
tragedy. 

"Don't  look  so  furious!"  she  urges.  "I  am 
so  sorry!" 

"Oh,  but  I  am  overjoyed,  —  that  is,  you 
95 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

have  proved  yourself  infallible  in  your  pre- 
monition, only  Cassandra  at  her  superbest 
moment  of  prognostication  could  have  fore- 
told an  event  with  more  terrible  accuracy!" 

"But  I  really  asked  him  yesterday!  You 
see,  I  belong  to  every  one  in  the  afternoon ! " 

I  remember  Luisa  told  me  I  might  meet 
many  people  here,  and  of  course  I  might  have 
known  the  Baron  would  be  among  them  in  so 
small  a  colony.  I  am  still  hoping  the  Con- 
tessa's sister  will  come.  Then  I  hear  the 
Baron's  foot  on  the  stair. 

"You  must  have  one  of  these  little  biscuit, 
Mr.  Allen!  Old  Filiodori  sent  over  from  Sor- 


rento." 


Remembering  the  Baron  at  table,  I  fancy  it 
is  well  to  anticipate,  and  accept  the  cake  with 
avidity.  "Then  I  may  stay?"  I  ask. 

"You  must  stay,"  she  reprovingly  com- 
mands, "if  only  to  prove  that  you  are  sorry, 
for,  you  know,  I  have  told  you  I  adore  the 
Baron!" 

I  am  still  skeptical  when,  breathless,  hat- 
less,  and  commodious,  the  adored  squeezes 
his  way  through  the  stair  opening,  and  hauls 

96 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

himself  up  the  last  step  by  reaching  out  for  the 
rail  with  a  mighty  grip  that  threatens  to  over- 
turn stone  and  mortar  as  easily  as  the  hand  of 
Samson  brought  down  the  ceiling  on  Delilah. 
The  catastrophe  averted,  we  sigh  with  relief 
and  make  ready  to  greet  him.  Expending  his 
final  breath  in  attempting  a  flowery  greeting, 
the  Baron  is  in  a  state  of  almost  complete  ex- 
haustion as  we  are  introduced.  For  me  he  has 
little  more  than  a  bow,  betraying  recognition. 
I  read  that  in  a  pair  of  eyes  whose  pupils  con- 
tract to  look  like  a  Jagebund  target,  such  as 
one  sees  in  poster  illustrations. 

"Mr.  Allen,"  Mrs.  Delmar  explains,  "has 
just  come  to  our  beloved  island  to  live." 

"Ah!"  he  splutters,  incredulous  of  my  be- 
ing worthy  so  exalted  a  scheme  of  life.  Evi- 
dently he  has  not  heard  that  I  ought  to  be 
canonized ! 

"Forever,"  I  qualify.  He  must  be  made  to 
understand  that  I  have  ceased  to  roam  around 
with  funny  little  old  ladies  from  England. 

The  Baron  has  certainly  drifted  beyond 
fifty.  His  red-featured  face  is  ponderously 
self-important  in  expression.  His  little  ears, 

97 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

small  gray  eyes  that  are  framed  in  black- 
bowed  spectacles,  blanched  hair  just  denied 
a  pure  state  of  benevolent  whiteness,  military 
shoulders  with  their  hereditary  shrug  of  in- 
tolerance, very  short  feet  that  are  veritable 
parallelograms,  a  waist  that  suggests  only 
hemispherical  circumferences,  a  pudgy  hand 
that  leads  me  to  believe  the  Uncle  must  be 
very  slow  at  cribbage,  and  a  tout  ensemble 
which,  had  it  been  tinted  with  vermilion, 
emerald  green,  and  gamboge  would  make  him 
look  like  a  German  Honigkuchen,  —  these  are 
the  physical  characteristics  I  find  still  clinging 
to  the  Baron. 

"And  you,  dear  Frau  Signora  Delmar,  and 
you,  you  are  most  well  on  the  housetop?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  Herr  Baron,  I  am  very  well." 
Mrs.  Delmar  answers  as  we  are  seated  again, 
"you  know  I  love  sitting  up  here,  where  I  can 
look  over  heaven,  sea,  and  earth,  better  than 
anything  in  the  world;  that  is,  when  such  de- 
lightful friends  deign  to  visit  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  deign,  I  do  deign,  my  dear  Frau 
Signora  Delmar,  I  deign  most  of  any!  I  would 
deign  all  the  time,  but  you,  you  would  be  so 

98 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

tired  to  see  your  Herr  Baron  friend  too  many, 
not  so?" 

I  think  I  have  never  heard  such  extraor- 
dinary English  in  my  life.  Moreover,  the  Herr 
Baron  is  evidently  displaying  it  for  my  espe- 
cial benefit.  I  hastily  review  the  things  he 
might  have  heard  the  little  old  ladies  from 
England  say  about  him,  under  their  assump- 
tion that  he  was  unversed  in  Anglo  expression. 
I  console  myself  with  the  thought  that  if  his 
knowledge  of  the  words  enumerated  by  Web- 
ster is  to  be  registered  by  the  present  indi- 
cations I  shall  feel  quite  at  ease  if  I  ever  find 
myself  chatting  intimately  with  the  king  of 
Cambodia ! 

"Adorable!"  I  murmured  with  affected  ir- 
relevance. 

Mrs.  Delmar  looks  at  me  with  suppressed 
amusement. 

"That  it  is  what?"  asks  the  Baron  per- 
plexed. 

"The  beautiful  housetop,  —  the  heaven, 
and  the  sea  and  the  earth  that  Mrs.  Delmar 
loves." 

"And  the  friend  she  too  do  find  to  deign  when 
99 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

delightful,"  he  adds,  complacently  pleased  at 
his  turn,  "you  too  honor  yourself  much." 

"  I  too  am  much  honored,  as  you  say,  Heir 
Baron,"  I  correct,  —  "moreover  I  have  never 
had  so  fine  a  cup  of  tea  in  my  life."  This  is  the 
truth,  yet  the  Baron's  obliviousness  to  tact 
suddenly  takes  the  form  of  a  suggestion  that 
I,  in  this  case,  can  never  have  visited  the  Ger- 
man consulate  on  the  Bosphorus.  The  appeal- 
ing look  from  Mrs.  Delmar  restores  me  to  my 
appreciation  of  the  place  asininity  can  take  in 
cosmic  involution.  Just  as  he  is  tangling  him- 
self up  in  an  intricate  rhapsody  of  the  supe- 
riority of  the  tea  at  the  Consulate  on  the  banks 
of  the  Bosphorus  over  every  other  sort  of  tea, 
no  polite  exceptions  (sort  of  a  floating  anec- 
dote, as  it  were,  helped  on  by  his  decreasing 
the  number  of  cakes  from  Sorrento),  the  gate- 
bell  tinkles,  and  we  know  some  one  else  is 
arriving. 

"The  Contessa  and  Francesca,"  Mrs.  Del- 
mar  suggests. 

"Ah!"  cries  the  Baron,  dramatically  jump- 
ing up,  "then  I  am  all  flusterings!  It  is  the 
heart  beat  that  springs  goat-like  on  mountain- 

100 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

peaked  hope  to  watch  down  the  stairs  that 
excuses  ?"  and  with  the  agility  of  a  pachyderm 
the  Baron,  tea-cup  still  in  hand,  is  at  the  top  of 
the  stair  peering  down,  leaving  us  to  wonder 
what  Goethe  would  have  done  with  him. 

"He  is  terribly  in  love!"  whispers  Mrs. 
Delmar. 

"Terribly!"  I  answer,  and  she  holds  up  a 
reproving  finger. 


IX 


IT  is  not  the  Contessa's  sister,  nor  yet  the 
lovely  Contessa  herself.  Instead  a  remarkable- 
looking,  tall,  angular  woman,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  Lombardy  poplar  bereft  of  its  foliage, 
flits  forth,  to  the  Baron's  confusion. 

"Ah,"  cries  he,  noticeably  recovering  him- 
self, "  I  beg  my  pardons !  It  is  the  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  of  cleverness !  And  I  had  suspected  the 
Contessa  and  Signorina  Francesca!"  He  sighs 
a  little  sigh  of  annoyance  as  he  delivers  this 
extraordinary  measure  of  his  natural  tactful- 
ness,  but  the  Miss  Winterspoon  of  cleverness, 
serene,  smiling,  and  displaying  remarkable 
powers  of  endurance  in  not  being  completely 
winded  by  her  stout  climb,  appears  not  to 
notice  the  Baron's  reservations.  Instead,  she 
gives  him  her  mitted  hand,  which  he,  first  dis- 
creetly swallowing  the  bit  of  biscuit  he  has 
just  snatched  up  as  solace  to  his  disappoint- 
ment, raises  to  his  lips  with  a  murmur  that  is 

102 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

difficult  to  interpret,  choked  by  the  perilous 
passage  of  the  biscuit. 

"So  gallant!"  Miss  Winterspoon  cries,  de- 
light and  affected  surprise  arching  one  eye- 
brow completely,  and  half  the  other.  "  A  veri- 
table Tristan,  Mrs.  Delmar,  or  was  it  Parsifal, 
Mr.  Allen?"  she  asks  as  I  am  presented.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  was  neither,  but  remain 
neutral  to  the  possibilities  of  either  hero.  Then 
I  am  catalogued. 

"The  States?"  I  have  shaken  her  hand  in- 
stead of  imprinting  a  kiss  of  peace  thereon, 
(which  means  that  I  am  discovered),  so  I 
proudly  acknowledge  her  swift  perception. 
"How  jolly!"  she  declares  as  we  sit  down  by 
the  table  again.  This  time  the  Baron  picks 
out  a  chair  especially  near  the  cakes.  "So 
jolly,  you  see,  for  I  have  known  several  Amer- 
icans, Mrs.  Delmar.  Quite  several,  Mr.  Allen, 
all  enormously  clever."  She  is  thinking  rich. 
The  Baron  looks  wistfully  down,  —  a  fleeting 
moment  only,  —  then  brightens  up  wonder- 
fully as  the  pouring  begins  and  we  start  all 
over  again. 

"Oh,  to  see  you  drinking  tea,  Baron !  Fancy 
103 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

a  German  drinking  tea  and  not  coffee,  dear 
Mrs.  Delmar!  Is  n't  it  quite  too  extraordi- 
nary, Mr.  Allen ! "  and  Miss  Winterspoon  gives 
a  shriek  of  delight  that  emanates  from  self- 
appreciation  of  her  acumen. 

"But  then,"  I  venture,  "perhaps  the  Baron 
has  learned  to  like  tea,  too."  At  which  he 
glares  at  me  less  fiercely,  though,  perhaps,  I 
imagine  it. 

"Ah,  yes,  Miss  Winterspoon,  I  am  pleased 
in  tea  too.  I  have  now  Englished  myself  so 
complete  I  take  into  me  always  tea  too.  Tea 
too,  I  like  now  more  as  coffee.  Always  ever 
afterwards  it  is  a  pleasure  for  tea  too." 

"Why,  Baron,"  laughs  Mrs.  Delmar,  "I 
never  expected  to  hear  you  admit  my  favorite 
contention  that  the  over-drinking  of  coffee  is 
not  good  for  any  nation's  nerves.  Always  to 
be  dissipating  with  a  coffee-pot  leaves  one  con- 
tinually high-strung!" 

"Ah,  that  it  is,  dear  Frau  Signora  Delmar, 
coffee  in  too  much  of  a  quantities  leaves  me 
much  strung  high.  Tea  it  is  wisdom  to  have 
learned  to  have  taked  —  for  your  sake,  Miss 
Winterspoon,"  by  way  of  gallantry,  which 

104 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

flatters  her  immensely,  "I  prize  myself  yet  al- 
ways of  a  step  in  time  saves  sixes  and  sevens. 
I  gather  no  rolls  of  moss!"  The  Baron  is 
mightily  pleased  at  the  success  of  his  felicitous 
fluency. 

"Really,  how  clever  you  are!"  Miss  Win- 
terspoon  discovers.  "Do  you  know,  Baron, 
you  Germans  are  ever  a  surprise  to  me!  One 
never  knows  where  your  cleverness  will  pop 
out!  One  never  does,  Mrs.  Delmar!  Does  one, 
Mr.  Allen?"  It  is  impossible  to  say,  so  I  don't. 

"Though,"  the  ingenious  lady  continues, 
"I  have  a  jolly  good  story  about  one  who 
did  n't  have  anything  of  the  sort,  you  know, 
and  you  will  not  think  me  wretchedly  rude, 
Baron?  He  was  not  one  of  your  typical  coun- 
trymen, you  know,  quite  not.  Instead,  a  most 
impossible  sort  of  a  person,  Mrs.  Delmar! 
You  know,  Mr.  Allen,  we  have  many  just 
such  English  persons,  and  I  dare  say — but 
to  go  on."  The  lady  takes  a  new  start. 

"It's  rather  an  interesting  tale,  and  I'm 
sure  you  won't  mind,  Baron."  The  Baron  as- 
sents with  a  splutter  of  crumbs  and  pays 
strict  attention  to  his  third  cup  of  tea  and  fifth 

105 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

cake.  (I  love  to  keep  count  for  those  incapable 
of  doing  it  themselves.)  "So  dear  of  you!" 
Miss  Winterspoon  goes  on.  "I  knew  you 
would  n't.  It  came  all  about  in  this  manner, 
quite  extraordinary,  Mrs.  Delmar;  very,  Mr. 
Allen/  It  chanced  that  my  aunt  Alexandra  and 
Lady  Bagg,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  too,  I  believe  — 
such  a  poor  memory,  Mrs.  Delmar;  quite 
shocking,  Mr.  Allen!  —  were  traveling  out, 
last  spring,  from  Florence  in  a  railway-car- 
riage and  had  the  misfortune  to  be  booked  in 
the  same  compartment  with  an  American."  I 
look  up  unpleasantly,  but  catch  the  twinkle  in 
Mrs.  Delmar's  eyes,  so  I  make  no  comment. 
"Oh,  quite  something  of  a  gentleman  it  seems. 
And  it  turned  out  to  be  no  misfortune  at  all, 
but  a  bit  of  jolly  good  fortune!  Quite  a  coinci- 
dence, Mrs.  Delmar,  and  so  unexpected,  Mr. 
Allen."  I  have  to  be  looked  at  again. 

"And  then,"  Miss  Winterspoon  explains, 
"the  American  was  quite  inoffensive;  in  fact, 
I  believe  Aunt  Alexandra  says  he  picked  up 
something  or  another  which  had  dropped  from 
her  tea-basket  when  there  was  a  dreadful  jolt- 
ing of  the  train,  —  but  I  do  not  fairly  recol- 

106 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

lect.  No  matter.  What  was  so  frightful  was 
the  fact  that  at  Empoli,  or  somewhere,  a  most 
odious  person  got  in  and  insisted  on  squeezing 
into  the  compartment  where  there  was  no 
room  for  him.  Aunt  Alexandra  always  has  to 
have  her  luggage  on  the  seat.  She  is  so  ner- 
vous about  collisions,  and  is  uncomfortable 
without  it  is  so.  You  know,  dear  Mrs.  Del- 
mar,  how  annoyed  Aunt  Alexandra  must  have 
been,  and  you  can  guess,  Mr.  Allen,  —  quite 
upset,  in  fact." 

"Disagreeable  things  are  apt  to  happen 
often."  I  dare  not  look  at  Mrs.  Delmar,  not 
yet  at  the  Baron.  I  fear  the  tale  carries  a 
catastrophe  with  it,  the  early  facts  point  to  its 
familiarity. 

"Indeed,  yes;  disagreeable  things  are  apt 
to  happen,  and  often,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Allen. 
They  did  happen,  and  I  am  so  sorry,  dear 
Baron,  it  happened  to  be  a  German  —  but  it 
only  happened;  you  do  not  mind?" 

"I  do  not  pay  any  attentions  at  all!"  de- 
clares the  poor  mortal,  intending,  however, 
to  be  magnanimity  itself.  "My  own  country 
peoples  often  is  like  Noah  Arks"  —  he  bursts 

107 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

into  a  roar  of  laughter  over  his  willingness  to 
admit  the  faults  of  even  his  countrymen.  "  It 
is  full  of  delight  to  hear  you  talk  so  many.  I 
hark  diligently  to  conclude."  So  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  proceeds  with  this  encouragement. 

"Ah,  then,  a  cruel  tempest  set  in  with 
wicked  lightning  and  terrible  thunder  and  all 
that  sort  of  dreadful  thing,  —  indeed  Aunt 
Alexandra  wrote  me  that  the  crashing  even 
seemed  to  shake  the  railroad  carriage  rudely." 

As  I  have  often  known  Heaven's  phenomena 
to  act  thus  impolitely  on  occasions,  I  do  not 
dispute  the  incident,  nor  anything  else  that 
may  have  happened  to  Aunt  Alexandra  and 
the  other  excellent  ladies,  so  I  am  all  atten- 
tion. Instead  I  suggest  that  Italian  trains 
move  so  slowly  they  might  meet  themselves 
coming  back,  and  thus  are  the  butt  of  the  ele- 
ments, but  my  theory  is  not  considered  ten- 
able, so  I  leave  it,  to  ask  if  it  was  the  German 
tourist  who  caused  the  wrath  of  the  gods? 
Mrs.  Delmar  looks  over  reprovingly,  but  I  am 
saved  by  Miss  Winterspoon. 

"There!"  cries  she,  "you  too  are  clever  like 
the  Baron!  Such  clever  people,  Mrs.  Delmar! 

108 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

—  But  of  course  not,  Mr.  Allen;  indeed,  no! 
At  least  I  do  not  think  it  was,  though  well  it 
might  have  been  had  we  been  living  in  the 
age  of  belief  in  such  things."  (Miss  Winter- 
spoon's  charm  seems  to  be  her  literalness.) 
"Well,  as  I  was  about  to  say,  just  as  Aunt 
Alexandra,  and  the  others,  arrived  in  Siena, 
the  wretched  German  person  piled  into  the 
only  conveyance  around  the  place,  and  drove 
off,  leaving  poor  dear  Aunt  there  in  the  rain, 
wet  and  furious.  It  was  then  the  American 
turned  out  so  especially  gentlemanly.  Indeed 
quite  a  Sir  Walter,  you  know,  lending  his  rain- 
coat, umbrella,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"A  very  useful  sort  of  thing,"  I  remark,  re- 
miniscently,  with  my  eye  on  the  suffering 
Baron.  He  darts  a  look  at  me,  but  I  am  im- 
mobility itself,  much  to  his  relief  apparently. 
Because  I  am  so  sorry  for  him  I  suggest,  "Per- 
haps, Miss  Winterspoon,  the  German  was  ill, 
or  did  not  see  there  were  no  other  carriages." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  waxes  the  lady,  nar- 
rating; "he  knew  perfectly  well,  I  fancy, — 
and  that  was  not  all."  The  Baron  almost  col- 
lapses as  he  hears  this.  "You  see,  they  all 

109 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

came  together  in  their  pension,  and  Aunt 
Alexandra,  who  never  exaggerates  —  never, 
Mrs.  Delmar;  no,  never,  Mr.  Allen!  —  wrote 
that  but  for  the  American  gentleman  —  well, 
they  might  have  starved."  We  all  express 
amazement.  "Indeed,  quite!  Starved,  Mrs. 
Delmar;  the  German  greedily  ate  everything, 
Mr.  Allen!  Everything  within  reach,  Baron! 
Yes,  quite  positively  everything!" 

I  feel  my  triumph  is  completing  itself,  but 
I  know  it  is  a  wicked  exultation,  and  try  to 
change  the  subject  to  the  latest  opposition  to 
monotony  in  the  Reichstag.  It  only  seems  to 
remind  Miss  Winterspoon  of  the  inexhaustible 
cleverness  that  "You  know,  Baron,  he  just 
happened  to  be  a  German."  Then  it  is  I  cough 
from  real  apprehension,  and  am  relieved  to  see 
the  lady  nodding  acceptance  of  another  cup  of 
tea,  as  the  Baron,  alive  to  his  peril,  replies, — 

"He  makes  himself  sometimes  a  mistake," 
adding,  by  way  of  palliation,  "when  the  thun- 
der intenses  danger." 

I  suggest  that  this  puts  the  matter  in  a  new 
light,  but  Miss  Winterspoon  is  obdurate,  and 
Mrs.  Delmar  so  puzzled  I  see  I  must  get  some 

no 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

hint  to  her  of  the  situation,  and  grasp  an  op- 
portunity, now  that  the  Baron  and  the  fair 
victor  have  come  to  an  unguessed  truce  over 
Heine's  exploits  in  Paris,  to  point  mysteri- 
ously at  my  humble  person  and  whisper,  "It 
was  the  Baron  and  I."  Mrs.  Delmar  cannot 
repress  a  laugh,  and  has  just  time  before  they 
take  a  listening  turn  again  to  suggest  that  it's 
almost  a  toss-up  between  us. 


X 


Miss  WINTERSPOON,  I  find,  is  a  person  who 
develops  rapidly.  She  has  just  startled  us  by 
insisting  that  as  a  topic  of  conversation  the 
weather  is  wrongfully  under  the  ban,  that  it 
ought  to  be  a  distinction  to  bring  it  up  if  only 
to  depart  from  the  commonplaceness  of  silence 
on  the  subject.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that 
light  before,  and  I  am  delighted  to  find  Miss 
Winterspoon  giving  birth  to  the  materials  for 
an  epigram,  instead  of  to  the  narration  of  an- 
other anecdote.  Finally,  by  this  introduction, 
we  happen  to  fall  to  discussing  the  proclivity 
of  modern  travelers  to  pick  out  sunless  win- 
ter for  their  first  journeys  to  Italy,  thereby 
exhibiting  a  timidity  toward  the  seasons  that 
would  never  have  taken  Marco  Polo  any- 
where. They  are  credulous  enough  to  be- 
lieve in  a  fiction  that  summer  in  Italy  is  an 
unfit  season  and  that  winter  is  the  only  time 
to  be  here.  We  remark  that  half  the  world 
has  never  guessed  the  joys  of  an  Italian 

112 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

summer,  and  we  are  thankful  we  are  the  other 
half. 

Just  as  the  Baron  is  about  to  enter  with 
Wilhelm  Meister's  views  on  the  subject,  Hea- 
ven mercifully  tinkles  the  bell  of  the  garden 
gate.  We  seize  it  as  an  opportunity  to  escape 
from  any  such  unexpected  and  dismal  erudi- 
tion, and  fly  to  the  parapet  like  curious  child- 
ren bent  on  seeing  who  is  coming. 

That  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  living  on 
housetops  —  you  can  throw  roses  down  to 
your  friends  and  roll  down  stones  on  your  ene- 
mies just  as  you  can  from  a  mental  one.  But 
it  is  roses  this  time.  There  are  great  clusters 
of  them  climbing  up  here  to  peep  over  at  us. 

The  Baron  looks  so  doleful  at  having  missed 
his  attempt  at  Goethe  that  I  cannot  but  take 
some  measure  of  pity  on  him,  wherefore,  to 
alleviate  the  pangs  of  the  interruption,  I  sug- 
gest that  perhaps  it  is  the  Contessa  and  her 
sister.  I  know  perfectly  well  it  is,  and  so  does 
Miss  Winterspoon,  who  has  wonderfully  keen 
vision  when  she  forgets  her  lorgnon. 

There  they  are,  crossing  the  court  to  mount 
the  little  winding  stair,  as  Miss  Winterspoon 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

and  the  Baron  and  I  have  done  under  Ma- 
ria's amazingly  agile  guidance.  I  marvel  that 
any  one  can  conserve  enough  strength  to  be 
flying  up  and  down  all  those  steps  all  day 
long,  as  she  must  have  to  do,  but  her  cheer- 
fulness about  it  suggests  that  she  may  have 
served  an  apprenticeship  to  such  feats  of  en- 
durance by  a  girlhood  spent  near  the  old  stone 
steps  the  Greeks  carved  in  the  rocks  over  there 
across  the  valley,  up  toward  Anacapri.  There 
are  eight  hundred  of  them,  and  they  quite  dis- 
count the  three  hundred  sets  Luisa  attributes 
to  the  Certosa. 

Presently  a  little  ripple  of  laughter  comes 
up  the  stairway,  and,  a  minute  later,  the 
lovely  Contessa's  lovely  sister  and  the  lovely 
Contessa  herself  burst  forth  to  view  on  the 
roof-tree  like  cherry-blossoms  on  an  orchard 
branch,  one  in  pink,  the  signorina  Francesca, 
and  one  in  white,  the  Contessa. 

The  Baron  is  in  raptures. 

"Ah!"  cries  he,  "it  is  angels  that  is  climb 
so  high ! "  and  then,  having  defined  his  admi- 
ration for  the  benefit  of  the  anglicanly  ex- 
tracted, he  greets  the  ladies  in  most  excellent 

114 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Italian.  In  fact  I  am  envious  of  his  fluency, 
though  his  accent,  I  argue,  will  never  equal 
my  own,  —  some  day.  One  has  to  find  com- 
fort in  the  abstract  when  taken  by  concrete 
surprises;  I  could  never  have  guessed  the 
Baron  master,  as  he  almost  is,  of  a  romance 
language. 

How  Italians,  above  every  other  people 
in  the  whole  world,  manage  to  tell  you  all 
about  yourself  in  their  eyes,  and  nothing  they 
do  not  wish  you  to  know,  will  always  remain 
to  me  a  mystery.  And  then  how  aggravat- 
ingly  they  can,  just  as  quickly,  become  abso- 
lute strangers  to  even  what  is  most  obvious 
about  you  to  every  one  else !  Your  Castilians 
or  your  Parisians  use  their  eyes  differently  — 
they  do  not  compel  you  to  believe  them;  you 
cannot.  I  am  thinking  of  the  Contessa  and 
her  sister. 

The  Baron  is  still  making  bows  and  adding 
to  his  salutations  a  profound  compliment  or 
two.  His  bows  are  such  fat,  funny,  springy 
ones  I  am  reminded  of  my  old  theory  that 
Germans  have  been  given  a  set  of  hinges  at 
the  knees  that  have  been  denied  ordinary 

"5 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

mortals.  It  has  left  them  immune  to  rheu- 
matism, but  prevents  their  getting  through  a 
minuet. 

"You  make  such  a  lovely  picture,  my  dear," 
Miss  Winterspoon  begins,  addressing  her- 
self to  the  Contessa's  sister,  "I  was  just  say- 
ing so  to  Mr.  Allen,"  —  which  is  not  fact, 
literally  interpreted.  However  it  is  gracefully 
complimentary,  and  I  love  to  bear  false  wit- 
ness to  defend  generous  impulses  of  verbality 
at  tea-parties. 

Miss  Winterspoon  draws  aside  dramatically 
and,  presently,  is  in  raptures  again. 

"Such  a  picture,  Mrs.  Delmar!  Quite,  dear 
Contessa,  an  allegory  —  Italia  and  Germania, 
you  know!"  Miss  Winterspoon  has  made 
herself  solid  with  the  Baron.  The  signorina 
Francesca  darts  a  mischievous  little  glance 
with  those  laughing  lovely  eyes  at  the  Con- 
tessa, and  I  am  wondering  if  I  am  not  in- 
cluded. 

No,  I  do  not  think  I  am.  Perhaps  Miss  Win- 
terspoon notices  it.  At  least  she  turns  to  me. 

"A  lovely  picture,  Mr.  Allen,  for  some 
Botticelli  to  paint!" 

116 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Ah,  it  is  divine  paint,  that  Springtime 
of  their  Sandro,  Fraulein  Winterspoon ! " —  I 
have  to  turn  my  head  and  look  out  over  the 
bay.  Even  Miss  Winterspoon  seems  taken 
aback  at  the  turn  the  Baron  has  given  her 
compliment.  The  Contessa,  however,  who 
understands  English  very  well  (I  find  to  my 
mortification),  and  her  lovely  sister's  undis- 
guised amusement,  suggests  that  only  the  very 
warmest  weather,  in  that  event,  could  pre- 
vent us  all  from  catching  cold.  I  well  remem- 
ber how  incongruous  it  seemed  that  winter's 
morning  when  I  paid  my  first  visit  to  the 
Academy  of  Florence,  and  came  into  the 
roomful  of  Botticelli's  unclad  nymphs.  We 
were  frigid  with  cold  and  wondered  their  noses 
did  not  turn  blue.  Although  no  other  picture, 
to  my  mind,  is  so  beautiful  or  so  wonderful 
as  the  Primavera,  nothing  could  induce  me  to 
visit  it  again  until  the  thermometer  crept  up 
to  seventy. 

I  add  this  observation  of  my  own  to  the 
Contessa's  sense  of  congruity. 

"You  know,  Signer  Allen,"  she  says  for 
my  pains,  abruptly  turning  the  conversation, 

117 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

which  is  considered  quite  polite  in  Italy,  "I 
feel  that  we  know  you  very  well.  You  saved 
my  wicked  little  Giacinto  from  bringing  the 
family  to  utter  distraction  by  restoring  him 
to  us.  We  were  so  frightened !" 

"Signor  Allen  must  know,"  the  Contessa's 
sister  laughs  (I  am  startled  by  another  re- 
velation, —  she  speaks  English  as  well  as  her 
sister),  —  "Signor  Allen  must  know  that  Gia- 
cinto runs  away  every  day,  —  all  the  time,  it 
is  his  education."  Her  ingenuous  way  of  per- 
fect frankness  is  delicious. 

"But  not  always  so  happily  into  the  signore 
Americano's  garden,"  the  Contessa  explains 
sweetly. 

"I  wish  he  did!"  signora  Francesca  laughs. 
"  I  mean,  if  he  would  n't  be  too  much  trouble 
for — "  she  is  forgetting  my  name,  "for  the 
signore — " 

"Camel!"  I  add  before  she  can  remember. 
Mrs.  Delmar  reproaches  me  for  heartlessness. 
Then  I  tell  the  story  all  over  again,  for  I  am 
guessing  the  Contessa  Mamma  will  be  inter- 
ested in  knowing  just  how  I  happened  to  be 
interrupting  the  toccato  this  morning. 

118 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Ah,  but  we  have  heard  it  already,"  the 
signorina  Francesca  confesses.  She  is  a  be- 
witching tease.  "Giacinto  is  mad  about  your 
garden!" 

"And  I,  dear  lady,  am  mad  about  Gia- 
cinto. I  shall  send  him  word  by  Vincenzo  to 
run  away  every  day!" 

-  "If  my  uncle  is  forgetting  to  keep  an  eye 
on  him  he  is  probably  there  now  waiting  for 
you."  I  can  see  she  wishes  she  had  not  just 
put  it  that  way,  for  as  the  Contessa  pro- 
tests I  venture  to  say, — 

"That  gives  me  a  chance  to  prove  how  in- 
clusive is  my  admiration  for  his  entire  honor- 
able family  —  at  least  I  shall  stay  on  here  a 
bit,  even  if  Giacinto  is  there  whistling  for  his 
camel." 

"And  the  bon-bons!"  the  Contessa's  sister 
unkindly  suggests. 

At  this  time  Miss  Winterspoon,  who  has 
broken  down  somewhere,  but  is  mending  her- 
self with  unexpected  dexterity  behind  a  jut 
in  the  parapet,  reappears,  twirling  a  bit  of  gil- 
liflower  she  must  almost  have  broken  her  neck 
to  reach,  as  a  visible  symbol  that  her  disap- 

119 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

pearance  has  been  but  a  quest  for  the  beau- 
tiful, and  not  a  matter  of  burstings  and  but- 
tons. 

"Ah,"  she  catches, " Villa  Giacinto?  Charm- 
ing name,  quite !  I  do  so  thoroughly  think  it. 
Surely  you  do,  Contessa!"  A  little  fleeting 
look  of  sadness  comes  into  the  Contessa's 
beautiful  eyes.  I  know  she  is  thinking  of 
her  other  Giacinto,  her  poor  husband,  and  I 
am  almost  angry  at  Miss  Winterspoon's  blun- 
der. 

"I  love  my  little  villa,  Contessa,"  I  say, 
"and  it  is  the  flower  I  love  best  —  hyacinth." 


XI 


ALREADY  the  color  of  coral  and  of  amber 
has  come  into  the  sky.  Old  Vesuvio  looms  up 
over  there  like  a  chunk  of  uncertain  chalce- 
dony, and  the  rocks  below  us,  touched  by  the 
sunbeams  hurrying  toward  the  lovely  hour 
before  twilight,  seem  streaked  with  agatine 
hues.  Men  and  women  in  the  vineyards  sling 
their  baskets  over  their  shoulders,  and  the 
filled  ones  they  balance  on  their  heads.  As 
they  start  homeward  they  burst  into  glorious 
song,  —  those  canwnette  of  perfect  content- 
ment, perfect  hope,  perfect  love,  or  again, 
perhaps,  of  absolute  rebellion,  boundless  de- 
spair, or  rankling  hate.  The  folk-songs  of  the 
Neapolitans,  the  Sorrentini,  and  the  Caprese 
are  the  only  musical  expressions  of  any  people 
that  precisely  convey,  even  to  the  alien  lis- 
tener, a  sense  of  every  known  human  emotion, 
and  of  any  human  emotion  in  just  the  register 
of  its  depth. 

"What  a  noise  they  make!"  Miss  Winter- 

121 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

spoon  breaks  forth.  No  one  agrees  with  her, 
—  not  even  the  Baron,  for  which  I  warm 
towards  him.  "  Oh,  if  only  they  knew  how  to 
sing  lovely  hymns  with  those  voices!" 

"Or  *  Tommy  Atkins,"  I  appear  rude 
enough  to  suggest,  safe,  however,  as  the  lady 
is  complimented. 

"How  jolly!"  she  screams.  "Isn't  he  a 
delightful  wretch,  Contessa?  Indeed  he  is, 
signorina!" 

Being  a  delightful  wretch,  I  feel  that  I  can 
scarcely  protest  at  Miss  Winterspoon's  un- 
covering of  my  latent  virtues,  so  I  only  reach 
forth  for  my  hat,  —  it  is  tune  we  were  all 
going  and  the  Contessa  and  her  sister  are 
just  rising.  Only  Miss  Winterspoon  lingers, 
and  my  feeling  of  gratitude  for  her  staying 
qualities  is  wishing  it  might  include  the  Baron, 
but  of  course  not.  So  I  shall  be  denied  the 
honor  of  alone  escorting  the  Contessa  and  her 
sister  home.  But  when  we  all  reach  the  garden 
gate  I  find  that  the  ladies  utterly  separate 
themselves  from  our  protection,  and  I  learn 
one  more  thing  about  Caprese  etiquette,  — 
this  time  it  is  the  Baron  who  instructs  me. 

122 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Clutching  my  coat-tail  as  I  turn,  surprised  to 
be  so  suddenly  dropped  from  such  fair  com- 
pany, he  whispers,  unnecessarily,  for  even  his 
sotto  voce  is  like  a  fog-horn, — 

"Ah,  but  my  dear  Herr  Mister  Allen,  it 
necessaries  to  go  by  us  alone  together,  else  is 
not  here  etiquette  without  Signor  Uncle!" 

There  is  nothing  to  do,  then,  but  wish  there 
were  a  hundred  uncles  on  the  spot,  and  to 
saunter  along  with  the  Baron  at  a  pace  that 
will  permit  the  ladies  to  arrive  at  their  des- 
tination a  minute  and  a  half  ahead  of  the 
time  we  shall  be  passing,  thus  averting  the 
scandal  of  even  appearing  unconventional.  The 
Medes  and  the  Persians  had  a  comparatively 
easy  time  of  it.  I  suggest  that,  and  the  Baron 
asks  me  if  it  is  true  that  ladies  in  America 
jump  on  and  off  of  moving  tram-cars,  stop 
run-aways,  stay  out  late  nights,  and  do  other 
interesting  things.  Never  having  run  an  asylum 
I  am  not  in  a  position  to  teach  things  to  idiots, 
but  I  do  struggle  to  tell  the  Baron  some  of  the 
things  he  ought  to  know.  It  seems  to  make 
him  sorrowful,  for,  with  a  sigh  of  seeming  dis- 
appointment, he  shakes  his  head  and  says : — 

123 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Too  bad  I  have  impressioned  myself 
wrong  in  so  excitings  a  things.  I  longer  not 
do  have  hope  now  to  needs  to  go  to  America ! " 

And  I  suggest  that  the  journey  is  one  fraught 
with  fatigue. 

At  last  we  find  ourselves  in  the  little  piazza. 
There  is  something  about  it  that  swells  every 
man's  chest  as  he  enters  its  flagstone  area,  so 
tiny,  almost,  that  the  last  comer  is  always  the 
immediate  centre  of  attention. 

Of  course  Vincenzo  was  born  here,  and,  I 
dare  say,  by  now  has  fully  had  time  to  become 
used  to  such  things,  but  as  for  myself,  I  feel 
funny  at  the  knees  and  elbows,  as  though  I 
were  all  wrists,  when  every  one  stops  to  stare 
at  us  and  talk  about  us.  The  Baron,  too,  is 
self-conscious,  and  although  he  weighs  a  hun- 
dred pounds  more  than  I  have  ever  hope  of 
doing,  he  attempts  to  hide  his  portly  person 
behind  my  slender  progress.  However,  it  does 
not  last  long.  Other  new-comers  follow  to  give 
us  our  turn,  and,  among  them  we  find  our- 
selves watching  a  long  lanky  gentleman  who, 
I  understand,  travels  around  taking  photo- 
graphs of  foreign  places  for  his  stereopticon 

124 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

at  home,  where  he  tells  his  audiences  nothing 
of  real  interest  at  the  rate  of  a  dollar  a  head 
for  his  trouble.  He  too  has  stage  fright,  until 
his  entree  is  superseded  by  the  paid  guests  of 
the  Messrs.  Cook,  hurrying  steamerwards,  un- 
happy, every  one  of  them,  to  be  hustled  off 
as  though,  otherwise,  they  might  not  survive 
for  another  "sight." 

So  I  leave  the  Baron,  as  our  ways  part, 
reflecting  that  we  have  happily  escaped  men- 
tion of  the  time  we  glared  at  one  another 
across  the  board  at  Siena.  And  I  flatter  my- 
self that  though  the  Contessa's  sister  was  very 
nice  to  him,  she  was  very  nice  to  me,  almost 
as  nice,  barring  her  duty  to  Uncle  Cribbage. 
At  any  rate  I  am  in  high  feather.  Any  one 
with  such  adorable  dimples,  like  the  dimples 
of  an  olive,  and  with  cheeks  like  sun-tinged 
apricots  must  know  she  is  beautiful,  if  there 
is  a  mirror  in  the  whole  province.  Should  she 
look  into  one  of  those  little  pools,  where  the 
bathers  love  to  puddle  around,  I  am  not  just 
sure,  remembering  the  story  of  Narcissus,  I 
should  not  find  a  wondrous  new  flower  there 
instead,  —  and  yet  I  doubt  if  the  dear  lady 

125 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

has  ever  had  so  conscious  a  thought  of  her 
own  sweet  self.  Hers  is  rather  the  loveliness 
that  has  not  discovered  itself,  that  has  no 
worry  about  itself,  and  that  has  no  quarrel 
with  itself. 

I  suppose  the  Baron  will  carry  her  off  to 
Bavaria,  put  her  bolt  upright  in  his  parlor, 
invite  his  family  to  view  her  from  the  hair 
sofa,  and  expect  her  to  remain  as  exquisite  as 
a  piece  of  Nymphenburg  porcelain.  She  will 
do  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Ah  well,  Life  weaves  strange  patterns  in 
destinies,  and  I  suppose  I  have  no  business 
to  be  attempting  to  unravel  one  of  them  be- 
fore it  is  woven  —  or  after.  And  yet  who  is 
the  weaver?  I  know  very  well  that  Clotho, 
Lachesis,  and  Atropos  have  had  to  take  on 
apprentices  since  the  world's  handful  of  peo- 
ple was  sown  by  Zeus  in  the  garden  of  Earth, 
to  increase  as  the  seed  scattered  to  the  wind 
by  the  blown  poppy. 

I  pass  the  little  shop  of  Tessa  Monceno, 
where  Giacinto  and  I  halted  this  morning  on 
our  way  across  the  desert  of  to-day,  and  as 
I  look  back  at  the  coral  caravanserai  I  see 

126 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Tessa  herself  standing  in  the  doorway,  with 
a  smile  that  shows  her  teeth  to  be  as  white 
as  sea-foam,  and  her  lips  as  pink  as  the  wares 
she  sells.  She  lifts  her  hand  and  dangles  a 
wee  bit  of  something  on  a  chain  twisted  around 
her  finger  to  tempt  me.  It  is  probably  a  bar- 
gain, but  I  have  no  heart  for  it,  and  I  am  think- 
ing of  other  things.  Anyway  a  camel  has  no 
need  of  such  trifles,  —  a  little  bell  around  his 
neck  to  tinkle  as  he  goes  his  homeward  way, 
perhaps,  but  that  is  all.  And  so  I  turn  away, 
thinking  of  the  tinkling  of  the  silvery  voice 
I  have  heard  again  this  afternoon,  more  mel- 
low than  any  bell,  sweeter  than  all  the  bells  of 
Florence. 

And,  as  I  turn  into  my  little  gateway  I  find 
myself  humming  the  sad  little  song  they  used 
to  sing  over  on  the  hills  of  Ravello: — 

Flow'r  o'  the  rose 
My  heart  heavy  grows  ! 
Flow'r  o'  June 
\  My  heart 's  out  o'  tune  ! 
Shall  every  to-morrow 
Voice  song  of  my  sorrow  ? 

The  evening  air  is  laden  with  the  fragrance 
of  clove-scented  pinks,  a  little  gleam  of  light 

127 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

from  Luisa's  kitchen  tells  me  that  she  and 
Vincenzo  are  faithful  to  my  home-coming, 
the  savory  odor  of  cooking  things  creeps  to 
the  nostrils,  and  the  primitive  in  me  is  not 
ashamed  to  be  reminded  that  dinner  is  wait- 
ing, —  outwardly  I  am  still  a  poet. 


XII 

LUISA  is  particularly  mysterious  this  averr- 
ing, —  but  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  soup- 
tureen.  She  is  brimming  with  suppressed 
excitement,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
broiled  chicken  —  delizioso  !  —  nor  with  the 
macaroni,  nor  yet  again  with  the  vino  di 
Capri.  I  am  on  the  alert  but  I  discover 
nothing. 

"My  padrone  does  not  scold  Luisa  for  the 
salad?"  she  asks,  smiling  until  her  teeth  look 
as  white  as  the  pebbles  of  the  marina.  "It  is 
ver* fine?"  I  am  teaching  Luisa  something. 

Of  course  it  is  very  fine  —  exquisite,  the 
sort  of  salad  that  would  have  taken  Moham- 
med to  Paradise,  but  will  keep  me  here.  One 
of  Luisa's  salads  is  worth  living  forever  for, 
and  I  tell  her  so. 

But  it  is  not  the  salad.  She  darts  into  her 
kitchen,  there  is  a  rustling  of  crinkly  paper, 
a  whisper  from  Vincenzo,  and  presently  Luisa 
radiantly  appears  with  a  great  earthen  dish 

129 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

which  she  spreads  before  me  to  disclose  the 
secret  of  her  preparation. 

"Zuppa  inglese,  signore!"  she  exclaims. 
"Buona!"  I  hear  Vincenzo  echo,  smacking 
his  lips.  Luisa  bursts  forth  in  a  volley  of 
reprimand,  and  he  slinks  back  from  the  sacred 
circle  of  my  surprise. 

In  an  unguarded  moment,  yesterday,  I 
chanced  to  hint  to  Luisa  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  cookery  of  my  country  that 
might  be  quite  beyond  her  ken.  If,  perchance, 
a  fleeting  memory  of  a  Thanksgiving  dinner 
flitted  across  my  mind  it  was  only  that  I 
thought  she  would  be  entertained  by  know- 
ing how  her  padrone  had  existed  before  maca- 
roni came  into  his  midst.  I  did,  incidentally, 
dilate  upon  pies  in  general,  and,  as  well  as  I 
could,  upon  several  pies  in  particular.  Yes,  I 
could  eat  a  whole  pie. 

"  Maraviglioso  !  " 

At  least  if  it  were  a  very  small  pie,  and  if 
it  chanced  to  be  a  pie  of  respectable  size  —  I 
could  eat  half  a  one. 

"Buon  appetito!" 

Luisa  might  have  known  that! 
130 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

But  now  that  I  have  stuffed  on  minestra, 
on  broiled  chicken,  on  the  wonderful  salad, 
on  formaggio  di  Salerno,  on  fichi  di  Sorrento, 
and  have  sipped  the  white  vino  di  Capri, 
which  sparkles  in  the  glass  like  golden  ripples 
on  the  sun-reflecting  sea,  Luisa  sets  down 
before  me  this  elaborate  piatta  to  my  amaze- 
ment and  exclaims, — 

"Ecco!  La  vera  zuppa  ingle se!  Buon  appe- 
tito!"  (Behold!  The  true  English  mixture! 
Good  appetite!) 

__"Heaven  be  merciful!"  I  cry  out  de  animo 
and  de  cor  pore.  Fortunately  I  say  it  in  English 
and  escape  hurting  Luisa's  feelings.  She  has 
already  made  an  incision  through  the  layer 
of  whirlpools  of  confection  posing  as  a  crust, 
and,  with  the  dexterity  of  a  surgeon,  lays 
bare  to  my  ungrateful  eyes  such  inwards  as 
I  had  not  dreamed  the  maddest  cook  out  of 
Alice's  wonderland  could  devise. 

"See,  signore!"  Luisa  cries,  "it  is  the  true 
pie  Americano  !  Behold ! "  and  with  agile  dex- 
terity she  has  placed  before  me  the  full  sweep 
of  its  radius  from  opposite  points.  I  say  a 
little  prayer.  I  would  rather  die  than  hurt 

131 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Luisa's  feelings,  but  I  shall  die  and  hurt  my 
own  if  I  attempt  to  gourmandize  as  a  means 
of  showing  how  delighted  I  am  at  the  unex- 
pected treat.  Alas !  too  unexpected. 

Moreover  one  bite  convinces  me  that  way 
would  not  be  safe.  It  is  as  though  marsala, 
maraschino,  cognac,  and  everything  man  has 
ever  distilled  from  the  fruits  of  the  land  with 
which  pudding  sauces  may  be  stiffened  with 
discretion,  had  conspired  to  preserve  the  zuppa 
inglese  before  me  for  eternity,  and  if  I  take 
another  mouthful  I  know  I  shall  be  liable  to 
arrest  for  disturbing  the  peace. 

Luisa  seems  bent  on  hypnotizing  me  into 
consuming  it  all.  She  relates  in  detail  how  it 
dawned  upon  her  that  Francesco  Califano,  the 
confectioner  and  baker,  a  pal  of  Vincenzo's, 
had  once  allowed  her  to  have  a  peep  at  a 
wonderful  zuppa  he  had  made  to  the  order  of 
some  visiting  Americans.  Never  had  Luisa 
seen  anything  like  it. 

,"Ah!"  Francesco  told  her,  "that  is  because 
never  before  has  one  been  made  out  of  the 
land  the  signore  Columbo  discovered.  Never 
before  has  confectioner  of  Italy  been  able  to 

132 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

do  it.  The  Americans  themselves  have  told 
me  so.  I  have  done  it!" 

Luisa  is  cursed  with  a  perfect  memory. 
"And  that,"  I  say,  choking  down  a  brandied 
cherry,  a  preserved  fig,  a  sugared  almond, 
and  a  bit  of  citron  peel,  faithfully  united  by 
an  insoluble  custard  dyed  purple  and  sur- 
mounted by  my  initials  in  paste,  "and  that, 
Luisa,  is  how  you  happened  to  think  of  sur- 
prising your  padrone  with  his  country's  na- 
tional dish?" 

"That  is  just  how,  signore,"  Luisa  beams, 
"that  is  the  very  way." 

"You  have  been  too  generous!"  I  exclaim. 
In  the  far  distance  Vincenzo  coughs  an  idea 
into  my  head.  There  is  still  hope ! 

"Luisa,"  I  say,  "never  has  your  padrone 
seen  so  wonderful  a  pie,  so  perfect  a  pie,  or  so 
enormous  a  pie.  In  America  the  very  largest 
I  ever  saw  was  this  big"  —  I  measure  four 
inches  along  the  table-cloth  —  "and  the  lar- 
gest I  ever  ate  was  this  big"  —  I  indicate  the 
diameter  of  a  butter-dish. 

Luisa  is  not  quite  convinced. 

"So  you  see,"  I  add,  "I  have  eaten  much 
133 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

more  of  it  than  usual,  —  in  fact,  Luisa,  much 
more  than  is  polite.  In  America  it  is  very  im- 
polite to  eat  so  much  pie." 

"But  this  is  not  America!"  Luisa  protests. 

"Ah  no,  Luisa!  But  I  cannot  yet  be  rude 
in  Italy.  Later,  yes,  perhaps,  but  now,  —  I 
am  too  new!"  I  affect  to  cast  a  greedy  look 
at  the  terrible  zuppa,  and  I  am  rewarded  for 
my  pains  by  discovering  that  I  have  done  re- 
markably well  by  it  after  all,  which  eases  my 
conscience  a  bit.  So  I  insist  on  the  rest  being 
divided  between  Vincenzo  and  Luisa.  I  hear 
a  sigh  of  relief  from  out  the  kitchen  —  Vin- 
cenzo has  been  listening — and  Luisa,  tempted, 
perhaps,  by  the  restraint  she  seems  to  have 
exercised  earlier  in  the  evening  in  not  ab- 
stracting portions  of  Francesco  Califano's 
second  masterpiece,  succumbs  to  its  allure- 
ments, and  carries  it  forth  to  crown  her  appe- 
tite and  that  of  the  patient  Vincenzo. 

So  I  am  left  alone  with  my  coffee  —  quite 
alone.  The  smoke  from  my  cigarette  forms  a 
mist  like  scirocco  settling  down  on  Monte  San 
Michele,  only  I  can  look  through  it  across  my 
little  table.  No  one  is  there.  Signer  Tabacco 

134 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

changes  his  mood,  and  into  the  web  of 
Madonna  Natura's  misty  tapestry  weaves  a 
woof  of  question-marks,  whose  pattern,  gone 
in  an  instant,  yet  remains  hauntingly  in  my 
mind,  and  I  wonder  if  I  too  am  a  fleeting 
question  on  the  threshold  of  To-morrow? 

Why  do  all  these  things  come  surging  into 
my  thought?  Why  should  I  start  at  finding 
no  one  but  myself  sitting  at  the  table  before 
me,  as  though  there  were  flooding  upon  me  a 
new  consciousness?  How  could  any  one  be 
there?  Why  should  any  one  be  there?  Is  it 
because  I  am  a  poet?  I  laugh  at  myself,  — 
but  that  does  not  explain  it.  I  tell  myself  it  is 
the  fault  of  Luisa's  sorpressa,  —  that  too  is 
ridiculous. 

Perhaps  a  breath  of  air  will  banish  this  in- 
explicable solemnity  that  has  crept  into  my 
soul,  so  I  step  to  the  window.  The  moon  is 
like  a  disk  of  pale  amber  and  everything  in 
my  little  garden  is  softly  lighted  with  color 
of  the  lime.  A  gentle  breeze  rocks  the  flowers 
to  sleep,  and  plays  a  lullaby  to  them  on  the 
lute  of  the  almond-tree,  whose  leaves  rustle 
with  mysterious  music.  The  wondrous  beauty 

135 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

of  the  night  banishes  the  melancholy  from  my 
soul  and  my  heart  leaps  into  song.  Lo!  as  I 
stand  breathing  a  little  prayer  to  the  angels 
of  heavenly  peace,  the  fragrance  of  the  jas- 
mine-flower creeps  to  me,  and  with  its  magic 
perfume  conjures  up  the  vision  of  her,  there 
upon  the  balcony,  there  as  she  clasped  little 
Giacinto  to  her  arms,  there  as  she  laughed 
at  me  on  the  house-top,  with  those  lovely 
mischievous  eyes.  My  pulse  throbs  with 
quick,  jerky  little  throbs  it  has  never  known 
before,  her  name  comes  to  my  lips,  I  am  like 
a  Titan  who  could  leap  from  mountain  to 
mountain,  the  whole  world  seems  so  tiny  I 
could  hold  it  in  the  palm  of  my  hand.  I  feel 
that  if  I  lift  my  arm  I  can  touch  the  stars,  — 
earth  seems  a  thousand  miles  below  me,  and  I 
know  now  why  life  is  worth  living. 


XIII 

THE  sun  and  the  sea  are  not  to  be  denied 
this  morning,  and  as  the  ever-thoughtful  Vin- 
cenzo  has  bought  a  little  bath-house  in  the 
name  of  his  swim-loving  padrone,  we  start 
forth  to  claim  it,  Vincenzo  to  show  the  way, 
I  wondering  if  it  will  be  like  one  of  those  hud- 
dling stumpy  arrangements  one  finds  over 
there  at  Pozzuoli,  or  a  nice  orderly,  sombre 
one  on  wheels,  such  as  those  one  finds  lined 
up  against  the  copperas-colored  Adriatic  like 
a  regiment  of  gray-uniformed  artillerymen, 
when  he  goes  forth  on  Venetian  territory  for 
his  morning  plunge. 

What  a  contrast  I  shall  find  to  the  Lido, 
where,  on  a  summer's  day,  all  of  northern  Italy 
seems  to  be  bobbing  in  the  sea,  or  spotting 
the  shore  with  fluttering  array  of  color! 

Vincenzo  leads  me  down  a  narrow  winding 
way,  walled  with   a   concrete  parapet  that 
saves  a  misstep  from  plunging  one  to  the 
rocks  a  thousand  feet  below. 
137 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"It  was  built  by  the  poor  German  gentle- 
man, the  Emperor's  friend,  who  died  down 
there  before  it  was  finished."  Vincenzo  points 
to  a  villa  built  sheer  into  the  rock  like  the  nest 
of  an  eagle.  "He  loved  the  island,  like  the 
padrone,  and  he  too  was  very  rich."  I  am 
not,  but  I  have  given  up  trying  to  convince 
Vincenzo  of  the  fact,  so  I  do  not  interrupt  him. 

"You  know,  signore,"  he  continues,  "there 
did  not  use  to  be  any  way  of  getting  down 
there  —  only  by  the  road  back  of  Monte 
Castello,  and  that  a  long  way  to  travel.  The 
poor  German  gentleman  loved  to  look  out 
over  the  sea  from  his  villa  terrace,  and  so,  one 
day,  he  promised  the  Sindaco  that  he  would 
pay,  from  his  own  pocket,  for  the  building  of 
the  most  wonderful  path  in  the  world,  and  he 
did.  You  will  see  for  yourself,  signore,  how 
it  was  cut  out  of  the  very  face  of  the  rock. 
Madonna  mia!  What  a  noise  those  scoun- 
drelly rascals  from  Sorrento  made  for  a  whole 
year  with  their  digging,  and  their  blasting, 
and  their  shouting!  Only  good  Messer  Net- 
tuno  himself  knows  how  much  money  it  ate 
up.  But  it  is  done,  and  the  poor  rich  signore 

138 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Tedesco  did  not  live  to  so  much  as  walk  out  on 
it  to  see  the  sun  glittering  down  there  on  the 
waves  like  the  gold  in  his  pockets." 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  gold  in  the  pockets 
of  the  poor  signore  Tedesco  has,  for  once, 
softened  Vincenzo's  attitude  towards  the 
Teutonic  race;  at  least  the  Croesus  of  a  road- 
builder,  who  made  possible  an  eighth  wonder 
to  the  world,  seems  exempt  from  the  ana- 
thema he  was  pronouncing  against  the  Baron 
and  his  compatriots  but  yesterday. 

Never  having  known  the  poor  rich  signore 
myself  I  can  only  hope  Vincenzo  bases  his  es- 
timate on  the  virtues  of  the  Emperor's  friend 
and  not  upon  the  vastness  of  his  treasury. 

It  was  a  noble  thing  to  have  conceived  and 
made  possible  this  marvelous  feat  in  engin- 
eering. A  man  could  not  leave  a  better  monu- 
ment to  his  memory  than  to  have  built  a  road. 

I  fall  to  contemplating  its  ingenious  con- 
struction, wondering  if  some  day  in  the  ages 
to  come  curious  tourists  will  be  poking  around 
amid  its  ruins,  marveling,  as  to-day  we  marvel 
when  we  catch  that  first  glimpse  of  the  end- 
less arches  of  the  Aqua  Claudia  from  the  train 

139 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

that  carries  us  across  the  Roman  Campagna. 
Will  the  world  never  cease  tiring  of  its  yester- 
days, and  then  of  coming  back  to  pity  them? 
Men  call  it  History. 

Then  I  reflect  that  nothing  so  proves  the 
temper  of  a  man  as  a  good  steep  road  —  his 
willingness  to  go  down  being  measured  by  a 
confidence  in  his  ability  to  climb  up  again. 

Already  we  have  descended  for  the  distance 
of  a  mountain's  height.  Somehow  I  feel  that 
Offenbach  must  have  dreamed  of  such  a  path 
when  he  wrote  that  immortal  aria  his  Orpheus 
sings  at  the  descent  to  Hades,  though  this  way 
beckons  to  Elysian  Fields,  and  brings  another 
song  into  my  heart  to-day. 

The  vast  precipices  around  are  almost  ter- 
rifying in  their  dizzy  height,  but  grimly  silent 
in  their  slavery  to  man's  indefatigable  mas- 
tership, —  the  true  victory  of  his  mind  over 
their  matter. 

Below  the  sea  gurgles  and  throws  itself  with 
patient  aimlessness  against  the  unyielding 
rocks  that  dash  it  into  mists  for  the  sun  to 
coax  up  wherewith  to  slake  the  thirst  of  the 
parched  heavens.  It  all  seems  so  endless,  so 

140 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

monotonous,  that   I   am   foolish  enough   to 
wonder  if  Eternity  is  not  becoming  senile. 

Vincenzo,  noticing  my  abstraction,  imagines 
I  am  indifferent  to  the  wonders  spread  out  be- 
fore me,  so  I  hasten  to  prove  myself  spellbound 
by  all  that  stretches  between  heaven  and  earth. 

"And  there  is  my  padrone's  bath-house!"' 
he  exclaims,  pointing  below  the  last  turn  of 
the  road.    "  Ecco  /" 

Now  I  am  fond  of  the  hues  of  the  rainbow, 
but  never  did  such  a  riot  of  color  meet  Noah's 
gaze  when  the  great  sign  told  him  the  Flood 
was  past.  Vincenzo's  eyes  sparkle  with  de- 
light at  my  surprise  —  he  has  done  it  all  — 
emerald-green  roof,  shell-pink  sides,  purple 
door,  rose-colored  shutters,  ultramarine  steps, 
all  perched  upon  orange  props.  It  is  little 
wonder  that  the  entire  island  is  down  there 
looking  at  it.  A  horrible  timidity  creeps  over 
me,  my  knees  seem  to  give  way,  and  but  for 
my  tender-heartedness  I  should  not  be  able  to 
go  on.  But  I  must  face  the  music  —  Vincen- 
zo's is  as  Richard  Strauss's  to  Handel's — the 
Elektra  and  Salome  of  bath-houses  to  all  the 
conservative  quietly  attuned  ones  beside  it. 

141 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Shall  I  be  mobbed  once  I  get  in  ?  That  ques- 
tion comes  to  my  mind.  Or  shall  I  step  before 
the  assembled  throng  and  say,  "Please  step 
aside,  my  good  people,  and  let  me  take  off  my 
clothes  with  what  becoming  modesty  I  may, 
in  these  surroundings  of  my  chromatic  pos- 


session." 


If  yesterday  I  was  a  camel,  to-day  I  am  a 
whole  circus,  but  already  Vincenzo  is  becom- 
ing suspicious  of  the  sincerity  of  my  apprecia- 
tion, so  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  press  on. 

Now  is  there  another  place  under  the  sun, 
where  my  life  would  not  have  been  made 
miserable  in  a  like  instance  by  a  reception  of 
grins  and  taunts  and  fun-poking?  Instead 
some  one  has  fastened  a  garland  of  flowers 
above  the  door,  my  new  friends  rush  up  to 
congratulate  me  on  Vincenzo's  handiwork, 
and,  amazed,  I  am  left  peacefully  to  enter  the 
sanctuary  of  my  private  bathing -pavilion, 
where,  disrobing,  I  quarrel  with  my  new  bath- 
ing-suit because  it  is  not  peacock-blue  with 
carmine  stripes,  —  so  quickly  does  man  come 
under  the  spell  of  the  suddenly  unexpected. 


XIV 

WHEN  I  emerge  I  step  cautiously  forth  with 
restrained  progress  until  I  feel  sure  no  wicked 
clam  has  buried  his  revenge  in  the  deceptive 
sands  underfoot.  One  does  not  like  to  make 
his  aquatic  premiere  recklessly.  However,  my 
path  seems  wonderfully  clear  of  sharp-shell 
obstacles,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  way  of 
triumphantly  skipping  with  lithesome  step 
into  the  waters  of  the  waiting  sea.  Neverthe- 
less I  turn  to  have  one  more  look  at  my  mar- 
velous bath-house  and  to  affect  a  rapturous 
"Che  bella!"  as  Vincenzo's  reward,  wondering 
if  ever  the  frescoes  in  the  House  of  the  Vettii 
had  known  such  riot  of  color.  Then  I  trot  on. 

There  in  the  warm  sand  before  me  a  group 
of  loungers  are  resting.  They  have  just  come 
out  of  the  water,  and,  as  I  draw  nearer,  a  tiny 
Eros  in  a  pink  bathing-suit,  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  his  birthday  one,  runs  up  to  me  as 
fast  as  his  little  legs  can  carry  him  —  of  course 
it  is  Giacinto. 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

"Bimbo  mio!"  I  cry,  snatching  him  up  and 
perching  him  on  the  shoulder  that  took  him 
through  Tartary  yesterday. 

Then  we  race  up  to  where  our  Contessa 
mamma,  our  Contessa  mamma's  sister,  and 
our  Contessa  mamma's  uncle  are  basking  in 
the  sun.  Mrs.  Delmar  is  there  too.  The  Baron 
is  nowhere  around. 

I  suppose  St.  Peter  spent  a  great  deal  of  his 
time  clad  just  as  our  ecclesiastical  uncle  before 
us  is  clad.  I  had  expected  to  see  him  first  in 
his  chasuble.  I  suppose  that  is  because  mod- 
ernity has  mixed  up  one's  ideas  of  such  things 
with  brocades  and  embroideries,  as  though 
God's  beautiful  air,  sea,  and  earth  were  not 
fitting  enough  as  vestments  for  even  the  holy 
men. 

"Ah,  Signer  Allen,"  he  cries  as  I  am  intro- 
duced by  the  Contessa,  "I  am  so  happy  to 
hear  that  you  have  come  to  live  among  us. 
It  is  a  true  pleasure  to  greet  you  and  to  wel- 
come you.  Our  little  Giacinto  has  come  to 
love  you  very  much;  my  niece  has  probably 
thanked  you  for  bringing  him  back  to  us  after 
his  little  run-away  yesterday  —  the  Contessa 

144 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

and  Francesca  have  already  told  me  of  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  our  dear  Mrs. 
Delmar's.  Ah,  but  I  fear  you  do  not  under- 
stand Italian,  perhaps?" 

I  protest  that  I  do,  —  marvelously  well. 

"You  will  have  no  excuse,  now,  Signor 
Allen,  for  not  listening  to  dear  Uncle's  very 
long  sermons,  —  I  tried  to  warn  you!"  the 
Contessa's  sister  gives  Don  Enrico  a  mischiev- 
ous pinch. 

"Ah  well,"  the  uncle  continues,  "you  are 
good  to  come  down  here  to  play  with  us.  We 
are  all  little  children  this  morning, — all  of  us." 

"And  there  is  no  etiquette  to  force  us  to 
run  home  by  sexes,"  I  laugh,  as  I  explain  the 
terrible  blunder  the  Baron  saved  me  from 
yesterday.  Of  course  I  know  very  well  that 
a  wardrobe,  every  country  over,  dictates  its 
precious  customs. 

"Your  bath-house  has  made  us  green  with 
envy!"  Mrs.  Delmar  declares,  as  I  deposit 
my  precious  burden  on  a  little  mound  and  we 
begin  to  cover  ourselves  up  with  the  sand  we 
let  slide  lazily  through  our  fingers  as  though  it 
were  marking  time  in  a  glass. 

145 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Then  Don  Enrico  shades  his  eyes  from  the 
lustrous  sheen  of  the  strand  and  begins  a 
little  story  to  entertain  us.  Giacinto's  atten- 
tion would  put  to  shame  the  wriggling  bored 
impatience  of  our  own  dear  kiddies  at  home, 
but  that,  I  suppose,  is  because  Romance  has 
not  been  born  in  their  hearts  —  it  only  finds 
itself  there  some  day. 

"It  was  here,  my  children,"  Don  Enrico 
begins  "that  Caius  Octavius  Augustus  Caesar, 
son  of  the  Velletri  money-lenders,  touched  foot 
upon  our  fair  island.  Hard  by  a  withered  old 
ilex-tree,  bowed  to  the  ground  with  its  weight 
of  years,  and  mourning  because  it  no  longer 
found  itself  decked  with  leaves,  suddenly  gave 
auspicious  sign  and  lifted  itself  erect  and 
green.  When  the  Emperor  heard  of  it  he 
vowed  never  to  let  a  year  pass  without  a 
visit  to  the  island.  And  so  the  Romans  came 
to  build  here.  They  called  it  Apragopolis, — 
'Farniente  town,'  and  some  of  us  have  been 
sweet-doing-nothing  ever  since!" 

Giacinto  is  seized  with  an  energetic  desire 
to  dig  down  into  the  sand  to  see  if  we  cannot 
find  a  trace  of  the  roots  of  this  miraculous 

146 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

tree.  We  do  find  a  chip  of  wood,  and  I 
love  Uncle  Enrico  for  letting  Giacinto  believe 
it  is  a  relic  of  the  tree  we  seek.  We  do  believe 
it.  We  shall  always  believe  everything  it  is 
no  harm  to  believe,  and  we  shall  be  sure  that 
every  one  who  does  n't  is  a  wicked  infidel. 
Our  uncle  smiles  benignly  upon  us.  Dear  old 
christian-pagan,  lovable  old  pagan-christian ! 

No,  I  tell  myself,  he  does  not  dream  that 
he  is  sacrificing  that  dear  angel,  —  it  does  not 
occur  to  him  that  she  will  not  be  very  happy 
with  the  Baron.  But  neither  does  it  occur  to 
her.  There  she  sits,  laughing  at  the  little 
Conte's  antics,  indifferent  on  the  very  thresh- 
old of  doom.  The  blood  rushes  to  my  head,  I 
bury  my  hands  in  the  sand,  and  clench  them. 

Then  I  wonder  what  madness  is  upon  me 
that  there  should  try  to  creep  into  my  soul 
this  fury  against  the  things  I  may  have  no 
right  to  think  of,  surely  no  right  to  meddle 
with.  After  all,  am  I  mistaken  —  can  it  be 
that  I  am  blind  to  everything  but  myself? 
How  do  I  know  Francesca  will  not  be  happy? 
How  do  I  know  her  life  as  Baroness  von 
Wulff  would  be  a  grim  prison  to  the  spirit,  a 

147 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

tomb  to  the  soul  ?  How  do  I  know  this,  —  how 
do  I  know  anything?  I  know!  A  little  groan 
escapes  my  lips  and  startles  me  out  of  myself. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Allen!"  Mrs.  Delmar 
cries,  "are  you  ill?" 

"No,"  I  answer,  affecting  a  smile,  "it  is 
only  a  cramp !"  I  thank  Heaven  for  inventing 
a  vocabulary  to  confound  the  perceptions  of 
others. 

"I  am  not  used  to  twisting  up  like  a  plate 
of  spaghetti;  it  is  all  right  now!"  I  jump  to 
my  feet  and  dig  Giacinto  out  of  his  little  hill. 
For  a  moment  I  catch  the  eyes  of  the  Con- 
tessa.  Then  I  pick  Giacinto  up  in  my  arms  and 
we  plunge  into  the  sea,  to  show  our  Contessa 
mamma  what  a  little  fish  we  are ! 


XV 

WE  toil  up  the  steep  road  on  our  homeward 
way,  Vincenzo  bringing  up  in  the  rear  with 
our  bathing  things,  turning,  now  and  then, 
for  another  satisfied  look  at  the  far-carrying 
gorgeousness  of  his  handiwork.  I  only  hope 
some  band  of  admiring  pirates  will  not  kidnap 
it  and  carry  it  to  Naples,  where,  some  fine  day, 
it  might  do  honor  to  their  museum  alongside 
the  paintings  they  have  ripped  from  the  classic 
dwelling  of  M.  Lucretio  Flam.  Martis,  whose 
usefulness  as  decurion  was  terminated  by  a 
lava-stream. 

Pink-petaled  roses  fringe  our  path,  and  I 
stop  to  gather  a  bouquet  for  the  Contessa. 
Francesca  is  ahead  with  Mrs.  Delmar,  and 
Don  Enrico  is  telling  us  the  story  of  the 
poor  Empress  Julia  Augusta —  Yacinthi  Juliae 
Augustae,  it  reads  on  the  sarcophagus  which 
now  serves  as  a  watering-trough  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  little  hotel  at  the  Marina  Grande. 
The  thirsty  ages  have  little  use  for  memories ! 

149 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Presently  we  catch  up  with  the  two  ahead, 
and  little  Giacinto,  who  has  been  singing  to 
a  butterfly,  darts  like  a  little  humming-bird 
between  us  and  takes  the  hand  of  his  auntie 
Francesca  in  one  of  his  chubby  own,  and, 
before  I  know  what  is  happening,  my  own  in 
his  other.  Then  the  darling  little  imp  tells 
us  he  loves  us.  The  Contessa's  sister  stoops 
down  and  kisses  him,  while  I  feel  very  em- 
barrassed and  silly,  though  nobody  pays  any 
attention.  Yet,  as  I  look  up,  I  see  the  Con- 
tessa,  with  her  head  buried  in  the  bouquet  of 
roses  I  have  given  her,  and  there  a  glint  from 
under  her  beautiful  lashes  makes  me  imagine 
it  is  a  little  tear. 

At  this  moment  we  hear  a  clattering  above 
us,  a  laugh  like  Woton's,  and  a  little  shriek, 
as  Miss  Winterspoon,  perched  on  the  home- 
liest little  donkey  I  have  ever  seen,  adroitly 
maintains  her  equilibrium  at  the  sharp  turn 
ahead,  balancing  a  pea-green  parasol  in  mid- 
air in  a  manner  reminiscent  of  the  graces  of 
circus-ladies  on  tight-ropes.  At  her  side  trots 
the  Baron  puffing  like  a  porpoise,  but  in  a 
state  of  good-humor  surpassingly  becoming 

150 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

to  him.  Behind  follows  the  invective  Agata, 
donkerina  of  the  Via  Mongiardino,  whip  of 
green  broom  in  hand,  driving,  wheedling, 
pushing,  and  cajoling  Rocco,  her  beast,  to 
proceed  less  obstinately  with  his  fair  burden. 
Evidently  we  are  an  attractive  company, 
for  Rocco  makes  at  us  with  break-neck  speed, 
while  the  terrified  Miss  Winterspoon  clings 
desperately  to  the  pommel.  The  gyrations 
of  the  pea-green  parasol  would  wig-wag  an 
army  to  its  destruction,  and  are  only  brought 
to  a  finish  by  Rocco's  determination  to  con- 
clude his  journey  on  the  spot.  That  is  how 
Miss  Winterspoon  comes  to  be  cast  into  my 
fortunately  handy  arms  as  Rocco  stiffens  his 
front  legs  and  loosens  his  back  ones  in  a  man- 
ner that  amazes  even  Agata.  The  Baron  is 
wedged  between  rock  and  donkey-ribs  — 
Giacinto  jumps  around  in  high  glee,  Don 
Enrico  attempts  moral  suasion,  the  Contessa 
rushes  to  help  me  with  Miss  Winterspoon, 
and  Francesca  gives  us  a  warning  just  in  time, 
as  Rocco,  changing  his  mind,  plunges  for- 
ward and  disappears  down  the  steep  path, 
while  Agata,  in  what  appears  a  frenzy  of  rage, 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

rushes  upon  the  poor,  squeezed-up  Baron  and 
demands  a  huge  sum  from  him  in  compensa- 
tion for  her  mortification.  The  Baron  regains 
just  breath  enough  to  protest,  but  Agata  is 
obdurate,  and  insists  that  the  buttons  down 
his  portly  front  tickled  the  sides  of  the  recal- 
citrant Rocco  at  an  unseasonable  moment, 
and  the  damage  would  be  worth  to  her  a  hun- 
dred lire,  if  Heaven  let  her  off  that  easily. 

At  the  mention  of  a  hundred  lire  Miss 
Winterspoon  regains  herself  completely,  and 
in  the  course  of  her  appeals  to  Don  Enrico  to 
restore  one  of  his  flock  to  reason,  it  develops 
that  Agata  has  already  victimized  the  lady 
in  similar  passes.  Indeed,  having  the  only 
beast  of  burden  on  the  island,  and  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  being  obliged,  from  her  dislike  of  walk- 
ing, to  patronize  a  monopoly,  Agata  has  been 
able,  heretofore,  to  exact  her  extortions  with 
impunity.  Giacinto  has  dragged  the  whip  of 
broom  over  to  where  we  are  wrangling,  for 
Agata  in  her  spasm  cast  it  aside.  Lo!  at  the 
tip  nestles  a  sprig  of  well-tied  bramble  of  tell- 
ing possibilities.  Don  Enrico  discovers  it,  and 
with  this  damning  evidence  of  Agata's  eye  to 

152 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

business  confronts  her  to  her  rout  and  con- 
fusion. We  leave  her  humble  and  penitent, 
but  Don  Enrico  confiscates  the  cause  of 
Rocco's  changing  his  mind,  and  tells  me  he 
thanks  Heaven  Agata  is  not  a  born  Caprese 
to  bring  shame  upon  his  people. 

"Never  was  I  so  astonished  in  my  life,  Don 
Enrico!  Never, Mr.  Allen,"  Miss  Winterspoon 
gasps.  "I  was  just  telling  the  Baron  that  I 
never  could'  understand  why  Schopenhauer 
chose  to  eliminate  certain  transient  specula- 
tions from  his  scheme  of  aesthetics,  when  that 
terrible  donkey  trotted  up  at  a  prodigious 
speed,  and  then  all  the  rest  was  a  blank  until 
I  found  myself  in  Mr.  Allen's  arms,  —  and 
you  bending  over  me,  dear  Contessa,  and  you, 
dear  Signorina  Francesca,  —  what  presence 
of  mind!"  The  parasol  is  a  wreck,  but  the 
good  lady  clasps  it  to  her  breast  as  she  looks 
over  the  parapet  to  see  what  she  has  escaped. 

"I  nervous  me  not  at  alls!"  the  Baron  ex- 
plains. "Between  two  evil  choose  not  any! 
So  I  stand  me  mute,  hoping  danger  to  pass." 

"It  did,"  I  suggest,  "like  a  whirlwind." 

"What  a  pity,  —  I  was  bent  on  seeing  you 
153 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

in  swimming,  Mr.  Allen!  And  now  it  is  too 
late,  and  I  am  completely  upset!"  I  doubt  if 
the  lady  realizes  what  she  is  saying,  and  I 
blush  as  I  see  the  amusement  on  the  faces  of 
Mrs.  Delmar  and  the  Contessa. 

"You  know,"  the  Contessa  explains,  "the 
Baron  is  very  timid  on  the  water,  and  fright- 
ened to  death  in  it.  Nothing  can  induce  him 
to  go  swimming,  and  as  he  finds  it  uncomfort- 
able to  sit  around  on  the  sand,  he  rarely  comes 
down." 

"Ah,  but  I  watches  from  on  high,  Contessa ! " 
and  I  find  that  he  has  no  qualms  about  using 
his  field-glass  whenever  he  wishes  to. 

The  Contessa's  sister  walks  along  by  his 
side,  but  hardly  seems  to  notice  what  he  is 
saying.  He  hands  Giacinto  a  bit  of  chocolate, 
and  I  find  myself  quite  put  out  that  Giacinto 
devours  it  gratefully  —  youth  is  always  such 
a  commentary  upon  itself. 

At  last  we  reach  the  crest  of  the  cliff,  where 
a  pink  villa  shelters  a  red  revolutionist,  and 
a  Russian  hound  bays  out  at  us  from  behind 
the  barred  gate.  The  Baron  gives  him  a  wide 
berth,  and  I  think  Francesca  notices  it.  Vin- 

154 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

cenzo  tosses  him  a  biscuit  from  the  pocketful 
we  had  taken  along  to  munch  on  the  way,  and 
he  swallows  it,  wagging  his  tail  for  more. 

As  we  walk  along  the  Baron  goes  into  rap- 
tures over  Miss  Winterspoon's  cleverness  in 
knowing  the  veriest  depths  of  Schopenhauer. 
He  too  has  been  mad  over  Schopenhauer  these 
many  years.  Francesca  must  read  Schopen- 
hauer —  he  will  get  her  the  book. 

"You  were  very  late  this  morning,"  is  all 
she  says  to  him.  "Mr.  Allen  has  been  taking 
such  good  care  of  us!" 

My  heart  gives  a  jump,  and  I  turn  my  eyes 
to  her,  but  she  is  still  looking  down.  Then 
Giacinto  scrambles  up  to  my  shoulder  again 
and  we  say  very  little  for  the  rest  of  the  way. 


XVI 

Miss  WINTERSPOON  has  invited  us  to  stroll 
out  the  Via  Tiberio  this  afternoon  to  see 
Carmelina  do  the  tarantella,  and  after  that 
home  with  her  for  tea.  So  I  tell  Vincenzo  and 
Luisa  where  I  am  going,  as  I  pick  a  white 
gardenia  for  my  buttonhole. 

"But  it  will  be  no  use,  signore!"  Luisa  de- 
clares. I  look  up  wonderingly.  She  blushes 
and  edges  away. 

"Why  will  it  be  no  use,  Luisa?"  I  ask.  She 
runs  over  to  Vincenzo  and  whispers  something 
in  his  ear,  then  hurries  into  the  house.  I  drop 
the  flower  I  have  picked,  and  stand  mystified. 
Vincenzo  begins  to  fuss  with  the  vines. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Vincenzo?  Why  are 
you  and  Luisa  so  mysterious?  What  is  there 
to  prevent  our  going  to  see  the  Carmelina  and 
her  young  sposo  do  the  tarantella?" 

"Nothing,"  Vincenzo  replies,  with  a  funny 
little  lift  to  his  shoulders,  "nothing  at  all, 
only — "  He  pauses  to  aggravate  my  curiosity. 

156  , 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Only  what,  Vincenzo?" 

"Only,"  he  explains,  "that  Messer  Stork 
and  Donna  Terpsicore  are  not  friends!" 

"Oh,"  I  whistle,  "so  that  is  it!" 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  cries  the  honest  Vincenzo, 
greatly  relieved  that  I  am  no  longer  obtuse, 
"and  it  is  a  girl!" 

Under  the  circumstances  I  can  see  that  Miss 
Winterspoon  will  be  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. I  can  only  hope  some  one  will  have 
broken  the  news  to  her  by  the  time  I  reach 
the  house,  that  this  interesting  opportunity 
may  not  fall  to  me.  However,  I  am  behind 
the  hour,  so  I  pick  up  the  fallen  bud  and  put 
it  in  my  coat,  Vincenzo  hands  me  my  stick  of 
olive-wood  and  my  white  hat,  and  under  the 
verbal  seal  of  his  approval  I  stride  forth  with 
fortitude  to  meet  duty  and  Miss  Winterspoon 
face  to  face. 

I  find  the  lady  thoroughly  recovered  from 
this  morning's  adventure  and  in  a  state  of 
coquettish  hospitality. 

"You  are  such  a  nice  man  to  come,  Mr. 
Allen !  And  I  dare  say  he  would  n't  bother 
with  an  old  maid  if  you  and  the  Contessa 

157 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

and  the  signorina  Francesca  were  not  to  be 
here,  Mrs.  Delmar!" 

I  chide  her  for  her  heartless  cruelty  and  tell 
her  I  would  throw  myself  at  her  feet  if  I  could 
find  them  —  she  does  happen  to  wear  small 
shoes,  even  for  English  ones, —  and  so  her  fan 
hides  the  remark  that  we  men  are  naughty 
flatterers. 

Miss  Winterspoon  is  marvelous  to  behold 
this  afternoon.  She  wears  a  gown  of  whitish 
homespun,  cut  like  a  Mother  Hubbard  that 
had  decided  to  lead  a  better  life,  and  the  lines 
nature  neglected  to  give  her  are  suggested 
by  a  leather  girdle,  such  as  ladies  who  long  for 
temperaments  purchase  from  arts-and-crafts 
shops  in  our  own  fair  country.  Around  her 
neck  is  a  ribbon  of  black  velvet,  on  which  the 
entire  mechanism  of  a  watch  of  King  George's 
time  is  strewn  out,  and  ingeniously  fastened 
so  it  will  not  scratch  her.  On  her  head  rests 
a  tawny- colored  straw  hat  trimmed  with 
orange  chiffon,  much  the  worse  for  a  freshet 
or  two,  but  decisively  jabbed  in  place  by  coral 
ornaments.  At  her  waist  reposes  (if  anything 
so  gay  could  repose)  a  huge  bunch  of  zinnias 

158 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

of  every  characteristic  color  from  brick  to 
sassafras.  I  had  no  idea  these  flowers  tor- 
mented any  gardens  in  the  world  outside  of 
the  marigold  runs  of  my  own,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment the  sight  of  them  makes  me  homesick. 
Then  I  remember  something  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  does  not  know,  and  seize  my  chance. 

"I  dare  say,  Mr.  Allen,  it  will  be  a  treat 
for  you  to  go  out  to  see  Carmelina.  Don't  you 
fancy  so,  Mrs.  Delmar?  I  hope  the  others 
won't  be  so  very  late." 

"Of  course  it  will  be  a  treat,  Miss  Winter- 
spoon,"  I  declare.  "I  have  heard  all  about  her, 
and  I  want  to  see  the  baby  too.  I  love  babies  1" 

"The  baby!"  they  both  exclaim. 

"Why,  Carmelina's,  of  course,"  I  inform 
them;  "I  thought  you  knew,  and  that  we  were 
going  out  to  help  at  the  christening  or  some- 
thing! It's  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Delmar  bursts  into  a  ripple  of  laughter 
as  Miss  Winterspoon  puts  up  her  purple  fan 
to  hide  her  embarrassment. 

"How  dear!"  Mrs.  Delmar  laughs,  "I  am 
crazy  to  see  it!  How  did  you  know?" 

Then  I  make  up  a  story,  and  tell  it  accord- 
159 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

ing  to  the  improved  methods  handed  down 
by  Ananias. 

"Fancy!"  screams  our  hostess  with  a  little 
blush,  "but  how  upsetting!" 

I  suggest  that  it  need  not  be  upsetting  at 
all,  and  Mrs.  Delmar  quite  agrees  with  me.  We 
are  both  for  making  a  little  pilgrimage  of 
congratulation  to  the  happy  Carmelina  and 
the  proud  Gervasio.  We  shall  take  Carmelina 
a  bouquet,  and  I  shall  put  a  gold-piece  in  the 
middle  of  it  for  the  bambina.  So  Miss  Win- 
terspoon  and  Mrs.  Delmar  begin  to  pick  the 
flowers  and  I  to  hunt  in  my  pockets  for  the 
gold-piece.  Presently  it  is  found,  and  we  tie 
it  in  a  bit  of  ribbon  Miss  Winterspoon  has 
sacrificed  from  her  toilet. 

"How  darling,  quite!"  she  exclaims,  "and 
I  fancy  we  shall  have  all  sorts  of  sport  over 
it.  You  are  so  unlike,  Mr.  Allen !  Is  n't  he, 
Mrs.  Delmar!"  I  suppose  she  means  original. 

At  this  moment  the  Contessa  arrives,  — 
alone. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  we  have  kept  you  wait- 
ing," she  cries  as  she  greets  us,  "my  uncle 
will  be  here  in  a  moment,  but  poor  Francesca 

160 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

has  a  troublesome  headache  from  the  sun  this 
morning,  and  asks  me  to  excuse  her.  She  is  so 
sorry,  and  greatly  disappointed." 

Before  we  have  a  chance  to  inquire  further, 
Miss  Winterspoon's  maid  hands  her  a  note 
which  has  just  been  delivered  by  the  urchin 
who  stands  at  the  gate.  Miss  Winterspoon 
reaches  for  her  bag,  but  I  hand  the  boy  a 
soldo  and  he  is  off,  leaving  her  to  glance  at 
the  note. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  I  know.  It  has  just 
come  from  the  Baron."  She  holds  it  a  moment 
and  a  funny  look  spreads  over  her  features. 
"Oh,  dear!"  she  cries,  "it  is  quite  too  bad! 
Baron  von  Wulff  has  just  had  a  telegram  from 
Naples,  and  in  consequence  must  take  the 
afternoon  boat  over,  so  he  cannot  be  with  us." 
The  Contessa  takes  Mrs.  Delmar's  hand.  "It 
is  quite  too  bad,"  Miss  Winterspoon  repeats, 
"quite.  —  But  here  comes  Don  Enrico!" 

That  good  old  soul  steps  through  the  garden 
gate  and  explains  that  the  troubled  soul  of 
Andrea,  whom  he  has  met  on  the  way,  de- 
manded a  bit  of  advice,  and  therefore  delayed 
him  a  moment.  I  look  at  him  closely,  but  as 

161 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

he  takes  my  hand  I  see  only  a  smile  upon  his 
kindly  face.  Then  I  turn  to  the  Contessa,  but 
she  speaks  first. 

"We  too  have  heard  the  news,  and  Mrs. 
Delmar  tells  me  of  the  lovely  surprise  for 
Carmelina.  It  will  be  great  fun."  She  smiles 
like  a  madonna  of  Raphael's,  but  with  even  a 
deeper  touch  of  sadness  than  I  have  noticed 
before.  If  she  has  been  telling  Mrs.  Delmar 
anything,  that  dear  lady  does  not  betray  it. 
Mrs.  Delmar,  I  have  come  to  learn,  is  the  Con- 
tessa's dearest  friend.  Then  I  turn  to  Miss 
Winterspoon.  Whatever  may  be  turning  in 
her  mind,  the  lady  conceals  it  nobly.  Indeed, 
however  extraordinary  she  may  be  in  some 
ways,  she  can  baffle  man  with  her  handling 
of  womanly  instinct,  as  Heaven  intended 
every  woman  should  baffle  him.  And  so  my 
opinion  of  her  goes  up,  though  I  am  none 
the  wiser.  Then  Francesca's  indisposition  — 
which  something  tells  me  is  only  an  excuse 
—  and  the  Baron's  sudden  trip  to  Naples 
may  only  be  coincidence,  —  I  look  at  Don  En- 
rico quietly  chatting  there  with  Miss  Winter- 
spoon,  as  we  make  ready  to  start  onward,  — 

162 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

still  my  heart  is  troubled,  and  as  we  wend  our 
way  towards  the  road  wicked  old  Tiberius  was 
wont  to  traverse,  I  find  I  am  asking  myself 
a  thousand  questions  about  the  Contessa's 
sister,  until  our  arrival  at  Carmelina's  throws 
me,  for  the  moment,  out  of  my  abstraction. 


XVII 

ANY  timidity  I  may  have  had  in  approach- 
ing Carmelina's  little  house  with  a  whole 
band  of  well-wishers,  merrily  led  forth  by 
Miss  Winterspoon,  quite  vanishes  under  the 
spell  of  that  lady's  spryness,  which  shows  how 
independent  she  can  be  of  either  Rocco  or 
Agata. 

In  my  innocent  way  I  have  been  wondering 
if  Carmelina's  baby  will  be  brought  out  by 
its  agile  old  grandmother  for  me  to  hold.  Now 
I  adore  babies,  and  Italian  babies  especially, 
but  never  am  I  able  to  shake  off  a  feeling  of 
terror  lest  they  break  in  two  in  my.  arms,  or 
slip  and  turn  inside  out.  I  am  not  a  good 
crib. 

So  I  cling  to  the  hope  that  Don  Enrico, 
with  his  years  of  christening  experiences,  will 
help  me  out  of  any  such  dilemma,  and  I  edge 
over  to  his  side  as  we  turn  abruptly  around 
the  walled  corner  of  the  ragged  old  road,  and 
find  ourselves  at  Carmelina's  very  door. 

164 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Ecco!"  cries  Don  Enrico,  "Pare  molto 
superba!" 

There  —  in  a  chair  by  the  steps  —  sits  the 
wonderful  Carmelina,  proud  indeed.  She  is 
gayly  attired  in  her  holiday  gown,  hair  be- 
ribboned,  the  great  gold  rings  in  her  ears 
shining  like  the  glistening  teeth  her  smile 
discloses,  while  to  her  breast  she  clasps  a  tiny 
bundle  of  breathing  humanity,  swathed  in 
yards  of  such  stuff  as  I  saw  in  the  little  pas- 
sage of  San  Stefano's.  By  their  side  stands 
Gervasio,  the  happy  father,  and  Santippe, 
his  old  mother,  who  looks  as  though  she  might 
have  mingled  her  years  with  the  traditions 
of  her  name,  though  now  her  arbitrary  old 
countenance  is  wreathed  in  smiles  of  antique 
pattern.  Well  might  she  have  stepped  out  of 
Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment  or  have  been  a 
Sibyl  tumbled  out  of  the  Sistine  ceiling.  » 

"Buon'  giorno,  signori!"  cries  Gervasio. 

"Buon'  giorno!"  Carmelina's  soft  voice 
echoes  over  her  baby. 

"Bu'  gio'!"  squeaks  Santippe,  at  us,  and 
we  are  made  welcome  by  all  three  as  we  group 
ourselves  on  the  steps. 

165 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Carmelina  is  very  much  touched  by  our 
bringing  the  flowers.  Indeed  I  am  surprised 
to  find  that  both  she  and  Gervasio  seem  to 
regard  the  gold-piece  with  secondary  appre- 
ciation, though  their  old  mother  seems  to 
regain  her  youth  at  the  sight  of  it,  and  nimbly 
runs  up  the  steps  inside  to  carry  it  to  a  place 
of  safety. 

Presently  she  returns  with  a  bottle  of  a 
wicked-looking  liquore,  a  basket  of  green  arti- 
chokes, and  a  plate  of  frutti  di  cacto.  We 
nibble  at  the  artichokes,  swallow  the  syrup- 
like  liquore,  and  devour  the  cactus  fruit,  which 
combination  acts  upon  the  spirit  of  man  like 
the  nectar  of  ambrosia,  while  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  becomes  delightfully  spontaneous. 

"Isn't  it  a  little  dear!  Mio  tesoro"  she 
reads,  woven  into  the  strip  of  pink-and-white 
cotton  cloth  wound  around  the  bambina  to 
make  her  grow  up  straight  as  the  stem  of  a 
daffodil,  "Mio  tesoro —  I  suppose  that  means 
'  my  treasure.'  Quite  poetical, — like  Dante  or 
something." 

While  I  fail  to  fathom  the  allusion  I  become 
much  interested  in  the  darling  bambina,  and 

1 66 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  am  getting  over  my  first  surprise  at  Car- 
melina's  prowess.  Of  course  I  should  have 
remembered  that  the  peasant  ladies  of  Italy 
become  ancestresses  one  day  and  go  about 
their  household  affairs  the  next. 

"Sono  molto  contenta!"  says  Carmelina,  and 
very  happy  should  she  be  with  that  blessed 
babe.  "Would  you  like  to  hold  it,  signore?" 

Before  I  can  say  a  word  the  infant  is  put 
into  my  arms.  I  try  to  conceal  my  trepida- 
tion. If  an  ordinary  baby  is  hard  to  hold, 
when  you  don't  know  how,  and  you  never  can 
know  just  how  with  some  one  else's,  a  little 
Italian  one  all  wound  around  like  a  spool  is 
just  as  difficult  a  problem,  for  you  feel  that  if 
you  should  let  go  of  any  part  of  it  an  instant 
it  will  roll  out  of  your  arms  like  a  ball. 

But  it  looks  up  in  such  a  nice  quiet  cooey 
way  that  I  forget  to  be  frightened,  and  before 
I  know  it  I  am  getting  on  famously,  to  the 
delight  of  Carmelina,  the  amusement  of  Ger- 
vasio,  the  distraction  of  Santippe,  and  the 
entertainment  of  the  rest. 

"I  really  think,  Con tessa,"  I  remark,  "that 
Italian  babies  are  the  dearest  babies  in  the 

167 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

world  and  that  Caprese  babies  are  the  love- 
liest babies."  She  smiles,  pleased,  and  tells 
Carmelina  what  I  have  said. 

"That  is  why  I  came  back  to  my  own  dear 
island  when  Giacinto  was  born,"  the  Contessa 
says  simply.  "  I  wanted  my  little  boy  to  be  a 
born  Caprese." 

"He  is  a  born  angel,"  I  tell  her,  "un  angelo 
piccolo!" 

Don  Enrico,  who  has  been  listening,  laughs 
until  his  jolly  sides  shake.  "And  so  he  is  always 
flying  away  into  new  gardens  to  be  brought 
home  to  his  own  paradiso  and  his  distracted 


mamma!' 


His  distracted  mamma  and  I  both  laugh, 
but  Mrs.  Delmar  agrees  with  me,  and  Miss 
Winterspoon  would  too,  were  it  not  that  she 
is 'holding  an  animated  conversation  with 
Santippe  on  her  finger-tips.  Whenever  Miss 
Winterspoon  meets  any  one  unequal  to  inter- 
preting her  fugitive  bits  of  foreign  phrases 
she  resorts  to  a  sort  of  deaf-and-dumb  sign- 
manual,  which,  if  it  fails  to  clarify  doubt, 
at  least  keeps  both  parties  to  the  event  well 
occupied. 

168  , 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

"How  I  wish  the  signorina  Francesca  were 
here,  Contessa!"  I  venture,  almost  with  a 
guilty  sense  of  prying  into  the  reason  of  her 
staying  away. 

"She  would  love  to  see  the  signore  Ameri- 
cano sitting  there  like  a  Caprese  padre,  so 
solemn,  and  worried  for  fear  it  will  drop!" 
laughs  the  Contessa.  "You  have  held  the 
little  bimba  long  enough  for  a  bachelor!  Here, 
let  me  take  her!"  She  darts  a  teasing  little 
look  at  me,  which  makes  me  recall  those  eyes 
and  their  mischievous  fun  at  my  expense  yes- 
terday on  the  house-top. 

"And  don't  you  think  I  would  make  a  very 
good  Caprese,  Contessa?"  I  ask  boldly. 

"You  might,"  she  replies. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Contessa!"  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  interrupts.  "Indeed  he  could!  Isn't 
Mr.  Allen  clever,  Mrs.  Delmar?  Don't  you 
agree,  Don  Enrico?  Who  else  but  one  with 
the  heart  of  a  Caprese  would  have  thought  of 
the  bouquet?" 

"Or  of  parting  with  a  gold-piece!"  Mrs. 
Delmar  concedes  —  a  pretty  compliment  to 
all  of  us. 

169 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"By  the  way,"  Don  Enrico  asks  me  —  we 
have  risen  to  go  —  "do  you  play  cribbage?" 

For  a  moment  I  am  overcome  with  con- 
fusion, which  happily  no  one  notices,  and  I 
stammer  out,  "I  love  cribbage." 

"Then,".cries  Don  Enrico  joyfully,  "I  shall 
look  forward  to  some  pleasant  passes  with 
you;  I  too  am  very  fond  of  cribbage!" 

"And  poor  I,"  declares  Miss  Winterspoon, 
''know  only  the  game  of  croquet,  which  one  is 
denied  here,  Mr.  Allen,  for  the  balls  would 
skip  the  wickets,  you  see,  and  roll  quite  down 
hill  over  the  people's  heads  and  things.  At 
least  I  fancy  so,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Delmar?  Or 
have  you  never  had  it,  Contessa  ? " 

I  am  happy  to  learn  they  have  never  had  it. 


XVIII 

THE  Contessa,  Don  Enrico,  and  I  walk 
slowly  home,  after  we  have  lingered  for  tea 
with  Miss  Winterspoon.  Our  path  leads 
around  Monte  San  Michele.  Through  the 
breaks  we  catch  glimpses  of  the  bay,  thrown 
like  a  bouquet  of  violets  against  the  lavender 
sky,  before  which  Monte  Vesuvio  stands  cut 
in  purple  silhouette.  A  tiny  tuft  of  cloud, 
tinted  with  the  color  of  rose-petals  at  dawn, 
blows  across  the  horizon  as  though  it  were  to 
pillow  the  tired  sunbeams  that  soon  will  be 
asleep  in  the  cradle  of  heaven. 

We  chat  about  many  things,  and  are  silent 
about  many  more.  For  a  while  we  walk  along 
without  a  word  passing  our  lips,  communing 
with  the  spirit  of  eventide,  glad  that  the  gods 
have  let  us  know  how  good  it  is  to  live. 

We  part  on  the  little  Piazza,  and  Don 
Enrico  promises  to  bring  the  Contessa  and 
Francesca  to  see  my  little  garden. 

"You  shall  dine  with  us  on  Giacinto's  festa 
171 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

day!"  Don  Enrico  exclaims,  and  the  Contessa 
hastens  to  extend  the  invitation,  much  to  my 
delight.  Well  do  I  know  how  great  the  honor 
is,  and  my  heart  fills  with  grateful  joy  that  I 
am  to  be  the  guest  of  these  dear  people.  Their 
perfect  courtesy  is  mingled  with  that  sort  of 
sincerity  which  touches  the  stranger's  heart. 
Of  course  I  promise  to  come,  and  I  think  they 
see  how  happy  I  am  about  it. 

"Buona  sera,  Signor  Allen!"  they  call  back. 
"Buon'  appetito!" 

"Buona  sera,  Contessa !  Buona  sera,  Don 
Enrico!  Grazie  tante!  Buon'  appetito!" 

But  I  am  not  thinking  of  the  pranzo,  though 
I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  do  justice  to  Luisa's 
arte  culinaria,  for  I  saw  Vincenzo  smuggling 
in  some  tempting  pineapples  before  we  started 
out  this  morning. 

No,  for  once  I  am  not  thinking  of  my  stom- 
ach. Instead  I  look  around  to  make  sure  that 
no  one  is  watching  me,  and  with  a  guilty  sense 
of  being  up  to  something  fearfully  wicked  I 
step  into  Carlo  Trama's,  and  ask  if  he  has 
cribbage-boards  to  sell. 

I  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  to  find  that  the 
172 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

good  Carlo  does  not  seem  surprised  at  my 
question.  But  alas!  though  he  has  a  very 
excellent  statue  of  Pompeian  bronze  that 
would  look  very  lovely  in  the  signore  Ameri- 
cano's villa,  an  excellent  booklet  of  "  Compara- 
ative  Idioms"  that  would  help  the  signore 
Americano  over  many  a  hard  road  in  acquir- 
ing a  fluent  command  of  the  excellent  lan- 
guage, he  has  not,  he  is  mortified  to  confess,  a 
single  cribbage-board  left  that  the  signore 
Americano  would  consider  looking  at,  —  in 
fact  he  has  none  at  all.  Such  worthy  trifles  are 
likeliest  to  be  had  at  Michele  Cerrotto's,  across 
the  way.  Michelucchio  will  be  sure  to  have 
one.  Will  I  look  there  ?  I  will. 

"Buona  sera,  signore!" 

"Buona  sera!" 

Michele  Cerrotto  has  a  very  fine  cribbage- 
board,  indeed  the  finest  that  has  ever  been 
brought  over  from  Sorrento. 

"See!  "cries  Michelucchio,  "it  is  made  of  as 
many  pieces  as  there  are  olives  on  a  tree.  It  is 
the  signore's  for  a  mere  trifle."  He  proceeds 
to  wrap  it  up. 

"But  how  much  does  it  cost?"  I  ask. 
173 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"  But  a  nothing,  —  the  signore  will  laugh 
when  I  tell  him,  and  wonder  I  can  be  so  hon- 
est and  live!  It  is  twenty  lire,  signore, — 
only!" 

Twenty  lire  for  a  cribbage-board !  But  it  is 
true  it  has  as  many  pieces  as  I  can  count  in 
an  hour,  and  it  is  very  wonderful,  and  very 
beautiful. 

"But  will  it  cribbage?"  I  ask  Michelucchio. 

"Will  it  what,  signore?" 

"I  mean  will  it  work  all  right?" 

"Oh,  signore,  a  cribbage-board  does  not 
work,  —  the  signore  works  it.  Certo  it  is  all 
right.  Come,  I  will  show  you!" 

Then  he  sticks  all  the  little  red  and  white 
pegs  into  the  little  holes  drilled  in  the  ivory 
pieces  so  skillfully  inlaid. ^ 

"Who  moves  first?"  I  ask. 

"Mai  si  e  udito!"  cries  Michelucchio,  wav- 
ing his  hands  in  the  air.  "Can  it  be  that  the 
signore  is  so  like  a  little  child  that  he  does  n't 
know  he  has  to  have  the  playing-cards  too? 
Ecco!"  and  he  brings  forth  from  its  gaudy 
recess  a  pack  of  astonishing  bits  of  brilliantly 
stamped  cardboard.  "You  see  it  is  this  way, " 

174 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

and  he  explains,  as  inwardly  I  groan,  com- 
prehending nothing.  The  fair  knowledge  of 
hearts,  diamonds,  spades,  and  clubs  diligently 
acquired  over  enforced  bridge  is  as  a  problem 
in  subtraction  to  one  in  infinitesimal  calculus 
compared  to  the  bewildering  things  Micheluc- 
chio  has  spread  before  me.  In  the  first  place, 
although  he  insists  they  are  playing-cards  and 
that  he  had  never  seen  any  other  sort,  to  me 
they  are  like  a  miniature  set  of  split  animals 
such  as  used  to  be  given  me  to  piece  out  to 
keep  me  quiet  when  the  lungs  and  heels  and 
elbows  of  my  first  six  years  wanted  exercise. 

It  is  true  there  seems  to  be  some  system  of 
spots  printed  on  the  faces,  but  some  spots  look 
like  ornaments  on  Christmas  trees,  others  like 
nutmegs  in  sunbonnets,  and  so  I  give  up  in  de- 
spair, for  I  cannot  make  anything  out  of  them. 

"Fra  un  mese"  Michelucchio  insists,  "the 
signore  could  learn  to  out-play  the  whole 
island,  so  quickly  would  he  learn  after  the 
start!" 

A  month  seems  a  long  time,  but  the  cards 
are  cheap,  so  I  bid  Michelucchio  put  them  into 
the  parcel. 

175 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Buona  sera,  signore!" 

"Buona  sera!"  I  call  back,  and  I  hurry 
home,  determination  written  upon  my  brow, 
though  inwardly  I  am  discouraged  that  the 
inventor  of  cribbage  should  have  insisted  on 
so  many  pegs  or  on  cards  at  all. 

I  am  not  a  moment  too  soon,  —  Luisa  in- 
sists that  everything  would  have  been  burned 
to  a  crisp  if  I  had  stayed  out  in  the  dreadful 
night  air  a  minute  longer.  Later  she  and 
Vincenzo  will  be  sitting  out  on  their  little 
terrace,  and  Luisa  will  be  forgetting  all  her 
terrors  for  her  padrone's  carelessness  in  stick- 
ing his  nose  out  of  doors  after  sun-down  as  he 
always  has  done  and  always  will  do,  and  as 
every  one  else  on  the  blessed  island  seems  bent 
on  doing  too. 

•  After  dinner  I  call  Vincenzo  into  the  room 
and  explain  to  him  that  I  have  a  great  desire 
to  familiarize  myself  with  the  customs  of  the 
country,  to  which  end  I  have  bought  a  pack 
of  his  curious  playing-cards  —  I  carefully 
conceal  the  cribbage-board  —  and  that  he 
must  teach  me  how  to  use  them.  His  eyes 
lighten  up,  and  we  begin  on  the  spot. 

176 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

It  is  wonderful  how  much  one  may  learn 
under  the  guidance  of  an  enthusiasm  like 
Vincenzo's.  Michelucchio  might  have  sold 
me  everything  he  had  ever  had  in  his  shop, 
but  he  could  never  teach  me  to  manage  a  pack 
of  Italian  cards  so  I  would  not  be  cheated 
out  of  every  trick  before  I  had  learned  what 
was  trumps. 

I  get  on  so  famously  that  I  become  bold 
enough  to  bring  forth  the  cribbage-board,  but 
I  do  it  in  such  a  manner  that  I  am  hoping 
Vincenzo  will  not  guess  I  have  not  had  it 
always. 

He  guesses  nothing  of  the  sort.  Instead  he 
turns  it  over,  and  there  on  the  bottom  finds 
pasted  a  blue  and  gold  label,  "  Michele  Cer- 
rotto  e  Figli,"  across  which  is  written  the 
price  in  Michele  Cerrotto's  undisguised  chiro- 
graphy. 

Vincenzo  smiles. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Vincenzo?"  I 
ask. 

"I  laugh,  padrone  mio,  that  Michelucchio 
can  earn  so  many  lire  in  a  day.  He  is  a  clever 
one.  But  it  is  a  very  good  cribbage-machine, 

177 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

a  very  good  one."  I  am  pleased  with  his  ap- 
proval. 

/'Then  you  must  teach  me  to  playcribbage, 
too,  Vincenzo!" 

" Mi  'spiace  moltissimo,"  he  cries,  "but 
the  signore  must  forgive  me,  —  it  is  the  only 
game  I  never  learned!" 

For  once  the  gods  have  been  unkind!  Al- 
most crossly  I  express  my  amazement  at 
Vincenzo's  deficiency,  but  his  profound  regret 
that  the  signore  padrone  does  not  play  the 
game  either,  properly  restores  me  to  amiability, 
at  least  outwardly,  for  inwardly  I  am  still 
swallowing  my  disappointment. 

"But  I  shall  try  to  learn  it  for  my  signore," 
Vincenzo  pleads,  "and  when  I  have  learned, 
I  shall  teach  all  that  to  him!" 

"Bravo!  Vincenzo,"  I  cry  approvingly,  with 
a  sincerity  that  ought  to  make  him  sit  up 
nights  until  he  has  mastered  the  intricacies  of 
the  little  board  and  its  little  pegs. 

As  there  is  no  hope  of  working  it  out  by 
ourselves,  Vincenzo  gathers  the  precious  mys- 
tery to  himself,  while  I  step  forth  to  saunter 
in  the  moonlight. 


XIX 

THE  Emperor  Augustus  had  old  Thrasyllus 
to  tell  the  stars  for  him  —  I  can  only  gaze  into 
the  heavens  of  the  night,  as  I  stroll  out  to  the 
Punto  Tragara,  and  ask  myself,  "What  of 
to-morrow?" 

Here  I  may  look  down  upon  the  rocks  of  the 
Faraglioni,  standing  sentinel  to  the  tiny  port 
below.  Here  stood  the  palace  of  the  proud 
Augustus  nineteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  a 
man's  lifetime  more.  Not  a  trace  of  it  can  be 
seen,  and  with  it  the  whole  band  of  astrologers, 
soothsayers,  and  wise  men  have  vanished. 

The  moon  is  cut  like  a  creamy  disk  against 
the  velvety  dome  of  Night's  impenetrable 
color.  My  shadow  shifts  like  a  spirit  that  is 
being  trampled  on,  and  the  eyes  of  man  can 
see  the  edge  of  nothing. 

A  little  boat,  like  a  bit  of  jet,  passes  silently 
across  the  yellow  streak  thrown  upon  the 
rippling  water,  and  I  wonder  to  myself  what 
it  can  be  doing  there.  Just  like  that  the  old 

179 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Saracens  stole  over  the  waves  in  their  boats, 
one  by  one,  to  pounce  upon  the  island.  Down 
there,  too,  the  Roman  galleys  used  to  be 
moored,  tied  to  great  iron  rings  driven  into 
the  rocks.  The  place  has  all  the  mysticism 
Arnold  Bocklin  would  have  loved,  and  holds 
one  with  its  haunting  beauty. 

I  turn  and  find  my  way  down  the  steps 
and  path  that  lead  to  the  little  scala  di  sbarco. 
Just  above  I  seat  myself  on  the  jutting  rock, 
and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  night.  To  my 
surprise  I  find  I  am  not  alone.  There  by  the 
strand  stands  a  strangely  clad  boy  with  a 
wreath  of  flowers  bound  around  his  tangled 
locks.  He  wears  a  long  flowing  robe,  and 
sandals,  though  at  first  he  appears  barefoot. 
He  pays  no  attention  to  me,  but  instead  raises 
his  open  hand  to  shade  his  eyes  and  peers  out 
over  the  sea  towards  the  little  speck  of  an 
island  whence  all  that  was  mortal  of  Masgabas 
long  since  became  dust  scattered  by  the  relent- 
less winds. 

Every  now  and  then  the  youth  turns  to  an 
easel  and  dabs  away  at  the  canvas  he  seems 
to  be  straining  eyes  to  work  upon.  For  a 

180 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

while  I  watch  him,  wondering  what  strange 
child  of  the  goddess  Art  can  be  wasting  his 
talent  in  this  futile,  fruitless  manner.  At  last 
I  call  out  to  him. 

"  Buona  sera,  signorino!  May  I  see  what 
you  are  doing?" 

"  Certainly,  signore,  —  I  did  not  know  any 
one  else  was  around.  I  am  glad  to  have  some 
one  to  talk  with."  I  draw  near. 

"It  is  not  what  I  want,  signore.  Nothing 
is  what  I  want.  It  seems  always  the  wrong 
way.  Everything  seems  always  the  wrong 
way!" 

"That,"  I  suggest,  "is  because  you  are 
young." 

"You,  too,  are  young; — no,  it  is  not  be- 
cause I  am  young." 

"Then  it  is  because  you  are  tired." 

"But  I  am  never  tired,  signore,  the  brain 
of  me  or  the  hand  of  me!" 

"The  spirit?" 

"Ah,  signore,  yes,  perhaps.  It  is  the  spirit. 
But  why  is  it  the  spirit?  I  paint  and  I  used 
to  be  satisfied.  Now  I  paint  and  I  am  not 
satisfied." 

181 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"That  is  because  you  have  learned  that 
you  wish  to  do  greater  things.  At  first  you 
were  pleased,  for  your  work  seemed  to  have 
reached  your  ideals.  Now  you  have  learned 
more,  you  long  for  more,  and  you  just  begin 
to  realize  how  far  beyond  the  old  things  that 
satisfied  you  the  new  things  are  to  you." 

"Ah,"  he  cries,  "I  wish  that  were  true, 
but  alas  it  is  not  true,  —  I  do  not  paint  so 
well." 

"Why  do  you  wear  that  wreath?"  I  ask 
him. 

"  I  do  not  know,  signore.  I  thought  I  knew, 
but  now  I  do  not  know."  He  takes  it  from  his 
brow. 

"And  why  do  you  let  your  hair  grow  to  your 
shoulders?" 

"I  thought  I  knew,  but  I  do  not  know." 
He  brushes  it  back  from  his  forehead. 

"Why  do  you  wear  that  strange  flowing 
garb  and  those  sandals  upon  your  feet?" 

"The  Greeks  wore  such  flowing  garbs, 
signore,  and  such  sandals  upon  their  feet;  — 
I  am  a  Norwegian." 

"Breath  of  the  gods!"  I  cry  at  the  unex- 
182 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

pected  announcement,  "had  you  been  Acheloo 
himself  I  should  have  said  you  were  five 
thousand  years  too  late!  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"I  have  come  down  from  the  north  to  study 
painting  with  Herr  Nordenbach,  who  lives  in 
the  House  of  Silhouettes.  He  painted  all  those 
dancing  figures  you  see  outlined  and  massed 
in  black  against  the  walls  of  his  garden,  which 
you  have  passed  on  your  way  here.  But 
my  heart  yearns  for  the  fjords  and  my  own 
mountains.  Oh,  signore,  if  I  could  only  see 
a  tree  I" 

"It  is  homesickness,"  I  cry. 

"Ah  no,"  he  replies,  "it  is  not  homesick- 
ness, —  it  is  not  that.  But  I  shall  go  back. 
It  came  all  over  me  to-day.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  me  to  be  a  painter  in  my  own  country, 
but  the  good,  patient  Herr  Nordenbach  must 
know  soon  that  I  can  never  paint  his  way, 
down  here  by  these  perplexing  rocks  at  night. 
I  try  and  it  all  seems  very  wonderful,  and  I 
go  back  and  I  dream  that  I  have  made  a  pic- 
ture that  will  make  me  famous.  In  the  morn- 
ing I  wake  up  and  I  look  at  it.  It  is  like  mud. 

183 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

The  Herr  Nordenbach  may  be  right  about  the 
Greeks,  and  I  have  let  my  hair  grow  long  and 
have  bound  it  with  a  wreath  of  asphodel, 
but  it  seems  silly  and  people  laugh  at  me.  I 
do  not  understand  them  and  they  do  not 
understand  me,  and  the  Herr  Nordenbach  is 
too  wonderful.  He  goes  around  looking  like 
a  prophet.  The  travelers  buy  his  pictures, 
and  they  take  photographs  of  him  with  their 
little  picture-machines.  No  one  takes  pictures 
of  me.  He  is  sixty  and  I  am  twenty.  I  shall 
go  back.  I  shall  go  back  to-morrow." 

He  flings  his  brushes  from  him  and  casts 
his  palette  to  the  sands.  I  do  not  try  to  stop 
him. 

"And  I  thought  I  did  not  care,  signore,  — 
I  thought  I  would  never  care,  but  to-day  has 
come  a  letter  from  her,  and  I  understand  it  all 
now,  and  she  will  wait!" 

"Ah,"  I  say,  as  the  light  dawns,  "I  under- 
stand now,  —  you  are  in  love!" 

"That  is  it,  signore!"  he  cries,  "my  God, 
how  I  am  in  love!  I  never  knew  it  until  to- 
day! I  shall  go  back!  I  shall  go  back  to- 
morrow!" He  jumps  to  his  feet,  and  before 

184 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  can  stop  him  he  has  dashed  his  easel  and  his 
canvas  against  the  rock.  "You  have  guessed 
it,  signore!  I  am  in  love!" 

Silently  we  walk  up  the  steep  way,  and 
together  we  pass  the  sleeping  villas  that 
border  our  path.  Afar  from  the  piazza  come 
the  sounds  of  a  belated  minstrel  returning  to 
the  unanticipated  fury  of  his  long-suffering 
sposa,  the  nickering  olive  leaves  laugh  softly 
at  the  little  comedies  that  creep  into  the  lives 
of  men,  and  then  I  turn  by  my  gate  to  wish 
him  good-night. 

"  Buona  sera,  Nels!"  I  cry  —  he  has  told 
me  his  name. 

"Buon*  riposo,  signore!"  he  returns,  taking 
my  hand,  "Thank  you!  I  am  happier  now,  for 
to-morrow  I  shall  go  back  to  my  own  country. 
Ah,  signore,  it  is  heart-breaking  to  be  in  love, 
but  it  is  very  beautiful!" 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  I  say.  "It  is  very 
beautiful,  Nels.  Buon'  viaggio,  and  heaven 
be  with  you!" 

"And  heaven  be  with  you,  too,  signore!" 
he  cries.  "Buona  sera!" 

"Buona  sera!"  A  little  sigh  creeps  tremu- 
185 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

lously  from  my  breast  as  I  turn  into  my  dear 
little  garden,  across  which  gleams  the  light 
from  the  candle  Vincenzo  and  Luisa  have  left 
me,  a  little  beacon  this  night  to  my  lonely 
storm-tossed  ship. 


XX 

VINCENZO  is  greatly  concerned  that  his 
padrone  seems  indisposed  to  attempt  to  de- 
vour every  morsel  of  the  collazione  which 
Luisa  has  devised  to  crown  the  happenings 
of  the  joyous  morning. 

I  try  to  explain  that  notwithstanding  what- 
ever theories  Messer  Darwin,  Messer  Spencer, 
or  Messer  Huxley  may  have  had  to  the  con- 
trary, man  is  distinguishable  above  other 
creature-species  by  his  ability  to  determine 
that  when  he  has  had  enough  he  ought  not 
to  try  to  hold  more.  But  Vincenzo  shakes  his 
head  at  my  philosophy,  and  I  see  subtleties 
are  almost  useless  in  strengthening  my  con- 
tention that  I  have  had  enough. 

"Though  humble  appetite  of  mine  has  never 
received  greater  temptation  than  at  this  very 
minute,  Vincenzo,"  I  cry,  loud  enough  for  the 
listening  ears  of  Luisa," nevertheless, behold! 
I  have  eaten  the  three  very  largest  of  the 
portentous  fish-cakes,  and  even  Neptune  him- 

187 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

self  could  scarcely  have  fared  more  sumptu- 
ously and  contentedly;  indeed  I  feel  as  though 
I  had  devoured  an  aquarium.  Then  the  most 
terrible  havoc  I  have  made  in  the  midst  of 
those  stewed  carrots  puts  a  blush  of  shame 
upon  the  complexion  of  my  greediness,  by 
reason  of  all  of  which  I  hardly  deserve  your 
reproaches,  Vincenzo.  Again  I  protest  that 
mine  is  the  very  epitome  of  an  appreciative 
appetite." 

"But  it  is  no  appetite  at  all,  signore!"  Vin- 
cenzo persists,  "it  is  an  abominable  nothing- 
ness of  an  appetite!  Certainly  it  will  break 
Luisa's  heart  as  it  is  now  breaking  mine! 
Only  try  one  more  little  fish  of  half  a  mouth- 
ful!" But  I  am  firm. 

"And  after  all  that  fine  swimming  and  that 
most  excellent  walking  up  the  cliff-side!" 
Vincenzo  continues,  sighing  at  my  obstinacy, 
and  pointing  to  the  precious  little  I  have  left 
unappropriated. 

Then  it  is  I  call  Luisa,  who  comes  bus- 
tling forth  from  her  kitchen. 

"Luisa,"  I  say,  "Vincenzo  has  become 
quite  unmanageable  again.  You  will  have  to 

188 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

give  him  a  bit  of  Ser  Marzippi's  famous  advice 
in  your  most  accomplished  manner." 
1  She  smiles  till  her  teeth  gleam  like  little 
cubes  of  garlic,  though  at  first  she  is  perplexed, 
and  glances  from  us  both  to  the  table  and  then 
to  Vincenzo  and  me.  My  little  jests  being 
matters  of  finesse  and  preparation,  I  proceed 
to  tell  her  that,  having  put  everything  in  the 
house  on  the  table,  she  should  chide  Vincenzo 
for  urging  any  such  outrageous  extravagance 
as  my  attempting  to  eat  it  all  at  once. 

"The  guests  at  the  wedding  dinner  do  not 
eat  the  little  sugar  bride  and  the  little  sugar 
groom  under  the  sugar  bell  held  up  by  the 
sugar  pillars  on  the  sugared  wedding-cake? 
Is  n't  the  inside  enough?" 

Luisa  smiles  again,  and  I  feel  I  am  becoming 
convincing. 

4"  You  are  as  ever  the  very  goddess  Culina 
herself,  reincarnate!"  I  continue,  "but  you 
have  yet  to  learn  about  the  wonderful  myste- 
ries hidden  by  the  American  generic  hash," — 
and  I  spell  it  for  them  with  a  purpose.  "If  your 
language-makers  had  been  more  generous  to 
the  letter  H,  instead  of  skimping  it  in  your 

189 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

dictionaries  with  a  little  half-dozen  or  so  of 
words,  then  the  indexes  of  your  cook-books 
might  have  given  friendly  entertainment  to 
our  over-national  delicacy,  and  you  and  Vin- 
cenzo  might  then  have  been  brought  up  the 
better  to  understand  how  extremely  neces- 
sary it  is  to  help  Providence  out  by  leaving  a 
part  of  to-day's  feast  for  to-morrow's  festive- 


ness." 


I  sit  back  in  my  chair  to  survey  the  effect 
of  my  suggested  encomium  of  economy,  but 
I  cannot  help  observing,  with  a  shade  of  dis- 
appointment, that  its  moral  has  been  entirely 
lost  in  the  attractiveness  of  its  material  side. 
Vincenzo  begs  me  to  impart  fuller  details  of 
"  'ash,"  and  Luisa  is  especially  delighted  that 
I  am  able  to  give  so  true  an  account  of  it, 
though  I  already  foresee  the  doom  I  am  bring- 
ing upon  my  head  by  my  own  thoughtlessness 
in  having  permitted  the  subject  to  advance 
so  far. 

"A  little  green  pepper  would  help  it,  —  all 
chopped  fine!"  Luisa  enthusiastically  ex- 
claims with  housewifely  instinct,  and  I  accede 
that  it  would  be  the  very  thing.  So  it  seems 

190 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

settled  that  Luisa  is  to  try  hash  and  all  just 
because  of  the  miserable  notion  in  Vincenzo's 
head  that  my  appetite  is  in  danger  of  vanish- 
ing! 

I  permit  myself  to  sip  the  glass  of  vino 
bianco,  which  Vincenzo  pours  out  with  solici- 
tude. 

"It  will  do  the  signore  good,"  he  insists, 
"there  is  nothing  like  it  when  the  head  goes 
wrong  from  the  sun.  Ecco!"  And  he  lifts  the 
sparkling  vintage  to  the  light,  leaving  me  in 
the  dark  as  to  the  intent  of  his  interpretation 
of  my  present  state  of  being.  However,  when 
the  wine  is  refreshing  one  should  not  question 
the  cup-bearer.  I  think  that  bit  of  informa- 
tion I  owe  to  Messer  Giovanni  della  Tranquil- 
lita,  and  I  cherish  it  jealously  as  I  follow  Vin- 
cenzo's advice. 

"Is  he  not  like  a  stupid  one,  signore!" 
Luisa  exclaims,  as  she  turns  with  mock  fierce- 
ness on  Vincenzo. 

"You  should  be  ashamed  to  take  such  lib- 
erties with  our  padrone,  Vincenzo!"  she  cries, 
"it  is  that  he  is  a  poet,  and  when  the  heart 
is  all  excitement  the  stomach  will  not  work. 

191 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Just  wait.  Later  the  signore  will  be  hungry 
enough  to  eat  green  cauliflowers;  then  will  the 
sensible  Luisa  send  forth  her  worthless  stick 
of  a  husband  for  eggs  of  the  hen  to  cook  into 
a  lovely  omelet  the  color  of  sunrise  with  little 
mushrooms  in  it!" 

At  this  delicious  creation  of  her  projective 
imagination  Luisa  withdraws  her  untender 
attitude  towards  Vincenzo,  having  withered 
him  as  much  as  prudence  permitted,  and  she 
smacks  her  lips  with  a  relish  of  anticipation 
that  leaves  her  padrone  little  doubt  as  to  the 
course  he  must  pursue  later  in  the  day  if  he 
would  keep  up  her  good  temper. 

"You  are  wonderful,  Luisa!"  I  cry,  and 
then,  to  pacify  Vincenzo's  pique,  "What  my 
Vincenzo  does  not  think  of  you  think  of,  and 
what  you  forget  my  good  Vincenzo  always 
remembers.  Without  you  both  it  would  not 
be  possible  to  get  along  at  all!" 

Of  course  it  is  quite  true,  and  Vincenzo  is 
pacified,  and  hurries  after  Luisa  to  help  her 
in  the  kitchen. 

As  I  pass  their  door  on  my  way  to  the  other 
side  of  the  garden  I  hear  them  gossiping 

192 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

about  the  morning's  adventures.  In  this  in- 
voluntary eavesdropping  I  discover  Luisa 
assuming  the  role  of  prophetess,  and  I  blush 
to  discover  the  things  about  me  she  and  Vin- 
cenzo  are  again  almost  quarreling  over.  I  try 
to  feel  annoyed,  nevertheless  I  give  way  to  a 
most  wicked  secret  satisfaction  in  the  details 
I  overhear  of  the  Baron's  slender  chances, 
according  to  Luisa's  forecast,  of  ultimately 
entering  the  paradise  whose  wall  he  has  been 
peeping  over. 

"And  it  should  be  plain  to  any  head-of- 
wood  that  it  ought  not  to  be  as  the  Don 
Padre  Enrico  would  have  it!"  Luisa  declares 
unreservedly.  "Have  not  I  known  the  sig- 
norina  Francesca  since  she  was  no  taller  than 
your  top-boots  ?  I  do  not  understand  it,  I  tell 
you,  I  will  not  believe  it  will  happen!"  Vin- 
cenzo  murmurs  something  I  do  not  hear,  and 
gentle  Luisa  throws  a  spoon  at  him.  Dis- 
creetly, therefore,  I  withdraw  from  the  scene 
of  incipient  battle  occasioned  by  Luisa's  faith- 
ful jealousy  of  anything  in  the  way  of  the 
complete  future  she  seems  to  have  cast  for 
her  padrone. 

193 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  stroll  down  the  vociferous  gravel  paths 
of  my  lovely  garden  to  see  what  the  heartless 
mid-day  sun  has  been  doing  to  my  brave  little 
flowers.  Here  and  there  I  stoop  to  fasten  to 
its  slender  stick  of  bamboo  a  wayward  white 
pink,  just  such  a  garofano  as  Sandro  wove  into 
the  hair  of  Simonetta, — poor  Sandro!  I  can- 
not help  thinking  of  what  the  Contessa's  sister 
said  to  her  careless  Baron  on  our  way  up  from 
the  marina  this  morning.  Did  the  wistfulness 
of  her  reproach  that  instant  mean  more  than 
mere  imagination  in  my  conceit? 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 
Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it  ? 

Then  it  is  there  conies  to  me  like  a  sudden 
soft  purposeful  breeze  from  the  warmth  of 
the  southern  lands  the  knowledge  that  I  am 
almost  beginning  to  discover  something,  to 
discover  why  in  Life's  mascheramento  I  have 
so  long  contented  myself  with  the  sorry  part 
of  Benedick. 

A  funny  little  tingly  feeling  creeps  over  me, 

and  as  a  wee  wisp  of  a  humming-bird  poises 

194 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

with  vibrant  wing,  like  a  bit  of  thistle-down 
in  the  path  before  me,  and  then  darts  into 
the  golden  sunlight,  —  gone  with  a  glitter, 
a  gleam,  —  I  chose  to  fancy  Eros  has  been 
bringing  me  a  message  hidden  in  the  quiver 
of  those  silvery  wings  of  his,  and  so  I  take  it 
into  my  wondering  heart,  marvelling  at  the 
little  threads  that  weave  themselves  into 
men's  destinies. 


XXI 

THIS  morning  I  do  not  pass  by  Tessa  Mon- 
ceno's  shop.  I  stop  a  while  to  look  into  the 
tiny  show  window.  Tessa  is  busy  with  a  cus- 
tomer. She  is  selling  him  a  coral  skull.  The 
contadino,  a  great,  sturdy,  handsome,  light- 
hearted  fellow,  pays  her  a  whole  lira  for  it, 
and  comes  forth  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  a 
peppermint-stick.  Your  contadino  seems  to 
court  the  friendship  of  Messer  Skull.  Even 
the  cross-bones  would  give  it  the  air  of  mari- 
time romance,  but  your  son  of  Italy  will  have 
none  of  them  —  just  the  grinning  skull.  I 
suppose  that  is  because  he  loves  to  tickle 
himself  with  fright.  Old  Arrigo,  who  is  the 
proud  possessor  of  the  shiniest  hearse  in 
Salerno,  does  a  driving  business  against  his 
competitors,  just  because  it  was  he  who 
thought  of  painting  a  nice  row  of  "Poor  Yor- 
icks"  across  the  front  of  his  carozza  di  morte. 
As  longevity  and  Salerno  go  uncertainly  hand 
in  hand,  Arrigo  has  amassed  quite  a  fortune 

196 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

through  his  up-and-doingness.  As  for  myself, 
I  could  never  be  friends  with  a  hearse  owned 
by  a  man  named  Harry,  and  I  hope  I  never 
shall  be. 

I  turn  from  my  soliloquy  and  am  no  longer 
Hamlet  as  Tessa  smiles  me  a  welcome. 

"Madonna  mia!  No!"  I  cry,  "I  do  not 
want  a  cranio  /" 

"But  it  is  a  very  good  jettura,  signore," 
Tessa  explains,  "for  keeping  the  cows  from 
going  dry." 

"It  would  avail  me  nothing,  Tessa,"  I  de- 
clare, "I  have  no  cow, — if  I  had  I  know  it 
would  be  a  kind  cow  and  not  have  to  be  fright- 
ened into  its  bovine  duty  by  the  sight  of  a 
skull  of  coral.  No,  Tessa,  it  is  a  different 
talisman  I  seek  to-day." 

"It  cannot  be  a  butterfly,"  says  Tessa,  at  a 
loss  for  the  moment  what  to  tempt  me  with 
from  her  tray  of  trinkets,  "for  the  signore 
bought  a  butterfly  the  other  day.  But  per- 
haps it  is  a  butterfly?  Perhaps  the  signore 
wishes  to  have  two  butterflies?" 

Of  course  the  signore  has  no  use  for  two 
butterflies,  so  Tessa  has  to  try  again. 

197 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"What  is  that,  Tessa?"  he  asks. 

"Oh,  that,"  replies  Tessa,  "is  a  very  lovely 
fascino,  signore.  So  cheap!  Just  like  a  baby 
rose,  and  pink  and  lovely.  It  is  only  ten  lire." 

"What !"  I  cry.  "Why,  Tessa,  I  would  not 
have  a  lira  left  in  the  world.  It  costs  too  much, 
I  cannot  think  of  it!"  I  hand  it  back. 

Tessa  does  not  insist,  for  it  is  only  the 
rapacious  foreigner  who  forces  a  bargain,  and 
I  have  long  since  found  that  when  an  Italian 
shopkeeper  knows  you  know  him  he  will  be 
fair  from  the  beginning;  —  warnings  to  the 
contrary  ought  to  be  stricken  from  every 
traveler's  scarlet  vade  mecum.  So  I  do  not 
try  to  beat  down  the  price  Tessa  asks  me.  It 
is  a  fair  price,  and  a  beautiful  bit;  —  indeed, 
I  wonder  that  Tessa  can  sell  it  so  cheaply,  but 
I  am  not  yet  fully  broken  into  realizing  the 
full  extent  of  the  extravagances  my  Uncle 
Rufus's  last  will  and  testament  have  enabled 
me  to  indulge  in.  Ten  lire  seems  too  much 
for  my  whim,  and  yet  — 

"What  else  have  you  there,  Tessa?" 

"Nothing  so  lovely  as  the  rose,  signore. 
Here  is  a  crocodile.  Five  lire!" 

198 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  hurriedly  hand  it  back. 

"What  can  any  one  want  of  a  horrible 
crocodile,  Tessa?" 

"Oh,  but  signore,"  Tessa  cries,  in  defense 
of  her  wares,  "with  one  of  these  the  signore 
could  never  die  from  wound  of  stiletto!" 

"Ferita  di  stiletto  will  never  trouble  me, 
Teresina.  It  is  legendary." 

Tessa  shrugs  her  shoulders  as  though  she 
were  not  so  sure,  and  sighs  a  little  sigh,  but 
I  pay  no  attention  to  it. 

"The  signore  will  not  have  the  nice  little 
cranio  against  the  cows,  nor  the  nice  little 
crocodile  against  the  stiletto,  nor  another 
little  far/alia  to  keep  peace  at  home,  nor  the 
lovely  little  rose  for  only  ten  lire  to  make  the 
one  you  love  love  you  always,  so  what  have 
I  else  to  show  the  signore?  He  will  have 
nothing!"  Clearly  there  is  a  note  of  disap- 
pointment in  Tessa's  voice.  Now  I  hate  to 
disappoint  any  one,  so  I  ask  to  take  another 
look  at  the  rose.  Tessa  becomes  hopeful. 

"And  it  is  very  good,  a  very  good  charm 
for  other  things  too,  signore,"  she  says. 

"Such  as  what,  Tessa?" 
199 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Such  as  —  such  as  very  good  friends." 

"But  I  always  have  good  friends,  Tessa, 
and  my  friends  always  stay  good.  I  have 
the  kindest  friends  in  the  world." 

"It  is  good  for  digestion  also,"  Tessa 
adds. 

"But  my  digestion  is  wonderful,  Tessa;  you 
should  have  seen  me  night  before  last!" 

"Then,"  cries  Tessa,  as  a  final  effort  to  dis- 
cover my  Achillean  spot,  "it  brings  luck  to 
new  house-owners,  and  makes  the  sun  smile 
upon  the  garden,  and  the  rain  to  come  when 
the  vines  are  dry,  and  the  sea  to  be  kind,  and 
the  sorrowful  to  be  happy,  and  the  hungry  to 
be  fed!" 

"Stop,  Tessa!  I  must  have  it  instantly." 
I  put  down  my  ten  lire  and  they  become  hers. 
She  is  very  happy  indeed. 

"You  must  not  hide  it,"  she  exclaims,  "you 
must  wear  it,  —  out,  —  so!"  and  Tessa  fast- 
ens it  to  my  watch-chain. 

"Ah,  signore!"  she  cries,  "it  is  perfect!" 

"I  shall  wear  it,  Tessa,"  I  explain,  "because 
it  makes  the  sorrowful  happy,  the  hungry  to 
be  fed,  the  sea  to  be  kind,  the  thirsty  vines 

200 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

to  be  watered,  and  the  sun  to  shine  upon  our 
gardens." 

"I  hope  she  will  see  it!"  Tessa  exclaims 
irrelevantly.  I  do  not  ask  her  what  she  means, 
for  she  has  no  business  to  mean  anything. 
It  is  I  who  am  buying  the  charm.  Tessa  may 
tell  me  what  it  is  good  for,  but  what  I  buy  it 
for  is  my  own  affair,  so  I  become  a  trifle 
haughty  and  wish  her  good-morrow. 

She  waves  her  hand  to  me  as  I  go  on  my 
way,  and  there  is  a  wickedly  mischievous 
little  gleam  in  her  teasing  eyes.  Before  I  have 
gone  far  I  can  hear  her  singing  one  of  those 
foolish  little  stornelli  some  Neapolitan  has 
probably  taught  her. 

Rosa  scarlata  — 

Come  'na  farfalletta  so  venuto 

da  te,  Rosa  gentile,  e  f  ho  baciata  ! 

But  I,  I  am  thinking  of  the  jasmine  flower/ 

Fior  gelsomino  ! 

Perche  voi  siete  tanto  disumana, 

con  me  che  non  son  sciocco,  ne  cretino  ? 

And  I  hurry  on  to  the  Piazza,  where  a  little 
group  of  idlers,  loitering  by  the  old  stone  wall 

20 1 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

looking  out  towards  Ischia,  lazily  watches  the 
vaporetto  plow  its  last  knot  through  the  yield- 
ing waves,  leaving  a  streak  of  churning  foam 
in  its  wake,  the  color  of  the  sea-birds  that  dip 
into  its  swirling  eddies. 

I  watch  the  little  boat,  which  soon  will  be 
landing  a  swarm  of  tiny  black  specks  there 
on  the  wharf  of  the  marina,  a  thousand  feet 
below  us  and  a  mile  away.  It  seems  a  thou- 
sand years  ago  that  I  was  down  there,  a  little 
black  speck  myself,  and  I  smile  to  think  of  it, 
so  deeply  does  the  plant  of  one's  new  life  root 
itself  in  the  fresh  soil  of  a  happy  land. 


XXII 

WE  do  not  have  to  wait  long  before  the 
rumble  of  the  funicolare  is  followed  by  the 
funny  little  car  that  has  crawled  up  its  gleam- 
ing path  of  track,  and,  like  a  willing  beast  of 
burden,  gives  up  its  bevy  of  passengers,  who 
step  forth  under  the  auspices  of  the  high- 
chested  officials  that  make  the  occurrence 
almost  a  function.  Between  times  they  are 
quite  human,  and  mingle  with  their  fellow- 
citizens  like  good  gossips,  but  with  each 
"Avanti!"  down  below  (following  such  a 
matter  of  importance  as  the  landing  of  the 
boat  from  Naples),  Giuseppe,  and  Giovanni, 
and  Giorgio  draw  themselves  aloof,  straighten 
their *caps  to  a  commonplace  angle,  and  in- 
stantly rise  above  their  surroundings,  as  their 
comrades,  used  to  it  all,  respectfully  give 
place  to  the  resumption  of  interrupted  author- 
ity, —  themselves  sighing,  perhaps,  that  it 
has  not  been  their  own  good  fortune  to  be 
counted  among  the  chosen  few  who  may 

203 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

flourish  a  bit  of  gold  braid  and  call  out  "La 
piazza,  signori!"  and,  as  a  final  exhibition  of 
tolerance,  "Pronto!"  when  the  passengers 
tumble  out,  all  looking  just  a  little  bit  foolish 
to  find  themselves  on  parade,  without  notice, 
before  almost  the  island's  entire  population. 

Here  I  observe  the  austere  type  of  lady 
journeying  south  from  Rome  —  you  can  tell 
her  by  the  huge  brooch  of  marble  mosaic  she 
wears  clasped  at  her  throat.  Then  I  behold 
her  counterpart,  journeying  north  from  Pal- 
ermo —  you  can  tell  her  by  the  Sicilian  scarfs; 
and  after  her  comes  the  inevitable  damsel 
who  has  an  international  aptitude  for  jour- 
neying from  anywhere,  and  that  you  can  tell 
because  her  skirt  is  four  inches  higher  in  front 
than  it  is  behind. 

I  find  myself  giving  place  aux  dames,  be- 
cause men  tourists  hardly  ever  seem  to  strike 
one  as  being  anything  but  just  busy  paying 
bills  and  wearing  unbecoming  caps. 

To-day's  arrivals  are  only  a  handful,  and  so 
the  disappointed  Neapolitans,  who  live  over 
here  just  to  grow  rich  housing  and  feeding 
transient  viaggiatori,  shout,  and  push,  and 

204 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

coax,  and  wheedle,  until  there  is  hardly  a 
shred  of  themselves  or  their  victims  left  to 
drag  back  to  the  seductive  discomforts  they 
alluringly  set  forth  at  twenty  lire  a  day. 

In  vain  I  look  for  the  Baron,  —  not  that  I 
have  any  business  to  be  looking  for  him,  or 
that  any  one  has  told  me  he  would  be  return- 
ing, or  even  that  I  have  any  desire  to  see  him 
again  as  long  as  I  live, —  but  I  think  I  have 
half  expected  to  discover  him  bustling  out  of 
the  carriage,  to  elbow  his  way  back  into  the 
little  circle  that  has  drawn  its  hospitable  cir- 
cumference around  my  heart. 

As  the  last  one  steps  out  of  the  carriage  I 
begin  to  believe  in  the  efficacy  of  my  coral 
rose.  Indeed  I  unclasp  it,  and  take  another 
good  look  at  its  incanto  self,  and  as  I  restore 
it  to  the  place  Tessa  Monceno  has  insisted  it 
should  go,  I  hear  a  footstep  behind,  and  turn 
to  find  Don  Enrico  beside  me. 

"  Buon  giornOj  signor  amico!"  he  cries, 
"and  a  day  it  is  after  the  blessed  San  Cos- 
tanzo's  own  ordering!  The  heavens  are  blue, 
^Eolus  breathes  from  the  south,  the  scirocco 
is  off  to  the  mainland,  old  Corrado  saw  a  quail 

205 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

in  Salvatore  Massa's  vineyard  this  morning, 
before  ever  the  dew  had  rolled  itself  up  into 
little  crystal  pills  for  Messer  Sun  to  swallow, 
and  so  I  am  on  my  way  to  visit  my  little  farm 
by  the  Veruotto.  If  you  have  the  courage  of 
Icaro,  signore,  I  should  feel  it  an  honor  to 
have  you  come  with  me.  It  might  entertain 
you,  and  the  walk  will  be  shaded  by  the  walls 
of  the  strada  until  we  are  nearly  there." 

Now  nothing  could  please  me  better  than 
to  be  with  Francesca's  blessed  uncle  this  per- 
fect morning,  and,  having  no  wings,  I  need 
not  fear  the  fate  of  Icarus,  for  the  sun  and  I 
are  brothers,  so  we  climb  down  the  old  steps 
below  the  saracenic-domed  village  orologio 
and  leave  the  chattering  crowd  behind. 

"I  shall  pay  you  a  state  call,  to-morrow, 
signore,"  Don  Enrico  announces,  after  the 
custom  of  the  land,  "if  I  may  hope  to  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  you  at  home.  It  is  a 
happy  thing  to  have  a  good  neighbor,  and  I 
want  to  see  what  you  are  doing  to  Villa 
Giacinto.  You  see  we  Caprese  are  curious  — 
the  most  curious  on  earth!" 

"I  shall  be  home  always,  Don  Enrico.  I 
206 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

shall  not  stir  out  of  my  garden  until  you 
come!"  I  declare. 

"Then  may  it  be  in  the  morning  at  eleven?" 

"I  shall  indeed  be  honored,  Don  Enrico! 
Ad  ogni  ucello  suo  nido  e  bello,  —  to  every 
bird  his  nest  is  beautiful,  —  and  I  hope  you 
will  find  mine  so." 

"  I  know  so,  Signor  Allen,  for  I  knew  it  when 
the  marchessa  was  living,  —  poor  lady!" 

"Was  she  so  very  unhappy,  then?"  I  ask. 

"Very  unhappy,"  Don  Enrico  replies. 

"Is  it  true  that  she  died  of  broken  heart, 
Don  Enrico?" 

"One  never  knows,  signore;  so  many  live 
with  a  broken  heart.  No,  I  think  it  was  the 
fever,  but  the  poor  lady  was  very  unhappy." 

Even  though  it  takes  from  romance  to 
invest  the  poor  lady  with  fever  when  I  had 
felt  sure  it  would  be  broken  heart,  there  is  a 
quaint  simplicity  in  Don  Enrico's  literalness 
that  one  finds  characteristic  of  his  people. 

"I  wish  the  Contessa  and  the  signorina 
Francesca  could  be  with  us  this  beautiful 
morning,"  I  say,  not  meaning  to  turn  the 
conversation  abruptly,  but  we  have  left  the 

207 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

poor  marchessa  a  dozen  paces  behind  without 
a  further  word. 

"Poor  little  Francesca!"  Don  Enrico  cries, 
hardly  realizing  that  he  is  not  saying  it  to 
himself.  My  heart  almost  stops  beating. 

"What  can  have  happened?"  I  ask  my- 
self, and  then  I  say  aloud :  "  I  hope  Signorina 
Francesca  is  not  ill,  Don  Enrico?"  He  bursts 
into  a  merry  laugh. 

"No,  signore!  My  little  niece  is  not  ill,  she 
was  never  so  well.  She  is  like  a  morning  rose 
for  health,  but  oh,  signore,  she  is  obstinate,  — 
a  pretty  will  of  her  own!" 

I  am  relieved,  but  it  is  not  fair  to  ask  ques- 
tions, so  I  leave  Don  Enrico  to  go  on.  Pre- 
sently he  explains. 

"You  see,  signore,  it  is  this  way.  In  our 
country  our  girls  marry  young.  It  is  the  duty, 
then,  for  their  guardians  to  pick  out  good 
husbands  for  them,  because  they  are  so  inex- 
perienced it  does  not  do  to  let  them  do  it 
themselves,  as  I  am  told  they  do  in  your 
country  —  but  your  girls  marry  later,  I 
understand.  Va  bene,  then.  Now  the  father 
of  our  little  Francesca  died  when  she  was  very 

208 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

young,  and  so  it  is  I  who  must  look  out  for 
her,  —  v a  bene!  She  is  an  angel,  but  she  has 
a  will  of  her  own!  Now  my  niece  never 
bothered  worrying  about  a  husband.  There 
are  few  young  men  of  family,  signore,  on  our 
island,  and  any  other  match  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Fa  bene!  Along  comes  the  barone 
from  Germany,  well  born,  a  fine  fortune,  and 
he  liked  Francesca  very  much.  I  received 
assurances  through  my  correspondents  of  his 
position,  indeed  I  made  the  most  careful 
inquiries,  and  then  what  was  more  natural 
than  that  I  should  propose  the  alliance;  there 
have  been  some  very  happy  marriages  be- 
tween tedeschi  and  our  own  race,  signore.  It 
is  true  the  Contessa  was  not  so  sure,  but  she 
is  very  wise,  and  after  all  it  was  Francesca 
who  should  have  decided." 

I  listen  and  my  heart  thumps  so  loudly  I 
blush  for  fear  Don  Enrico  will  hear  it. 

"And  then,"  he  goes  on,  "I  had  even  come 
to  believe  Francesca  would  be  very  fond  of  the 
signore  barone  —  oh,  he  plays  such  a  crib- 
bage !  —  but  no,  she  has  a  sweet  will  of  her 
own,  and  I  never  know  what  she  will  do  next." 

209 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  cough  to  hide  my  excitement,  and  listen 
breathlessly. 

"  It  began  the  day  you  brought  our  bambino 
back  from  your  garden.  Francesca  tells  me 
that  she  does  not  think  it  looks  nice  for  any 
one  fat  like  the  signore  barone  to  have  so 
slender  a  wife!  We  are  amazed,  for  it  is  too 
absurd.  Then  Francesca  comes  home  from 
Mrs.  Delmar's  and  tells  me  the  signore  barone 
gets  very  red  in  the  face  when  he  climbs  down 
stairs.  What  ridiculousness!  Again  I  reprove 
her.  And  when  we  return  from  the  marina 
this  morning,  she  bursts  into  tears,  and  vows 
she  will  not  marry  the  signore  barone.  '  Calma, 
calma  T  I  cry,  but  it  makes  not  one  orange- 
seed's  worth  of  difference!  Then  I  become 
very  angry,  but  Francesca  is  obstinate.  All 
the  time  she  kneels  herself  by  little  Giacinto, 
and  he  too  starts  to  cry  with  all  the  lungs 
the  blessed  saints  have  given  him.  Blessed 
Heaven,  what  a  noise !  Her  sister  tries  to 
reason  with  her,  and  I  stand  like  a  stone  of 
mortification  that  my  niece  should  behave  so, 
because,  signore,  the  barone  is  standing  by  all 
the  time,  white  and  perplexed. 

210 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"'Francesca,'  he  cried,  'do  you  not  love 
me?' 

"I  never  loved  you!'  the  wicked  child  re- 
plied. 'I  have  never  pretended  I  did.  It  was 
to  please  my  uncle;  but  I  cannot,  no,  I  can- 
not!' 

"'I  have  guessed  so,'  the  barone  said,  'but 
I  was  not  sure.  Now  I  am  sure.  It  is  better 
to  be  sure.  It  is  one  terrible  mistake,  but  we 
have  found  out  in  time.  I  understand  it,  my 
good  friend,'  he  adds,  turning  to  me,  'I  under- 
stand it, — I  have  been  through  it  many  times. 
Now  I  shall  be  resigned.  It  is  made  that  I  die 
an  old  bachelor!  So  I  will  go  away  to-day, 
and  that  will  make  everything  to  be  simple 
again!'  and  as  he  turned,  Francesca  jumped  to 
her  feet  and  kissed  him  good-bye  on  the  cheek 
for  being  so  good!  You  see,  signore,  Heaven 
itself  can  do  nothing  with  her  unless  she  has 
her  own  way!  And  so  the  poor  signore  barone 
has  gone,  and  I  do  not  think  he  will  come 
back," — he  sighs  a  little  sigh  of  regret, — 
"but  what  am  I  to  do  with  her!  A  minute 
after  he  was  gone  she  burst  out  singing.  No, 
signore,  it  was  not  madness,  but  gladness;  — 

211 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  do  not  pretend  to  understand.  And  then  she 
pretended  the  headache,  and  all  the  time  we 
were  with  Miss  Winterspoon  my  willful  Fran- 
ces ca  and  Giacinto  were  romping  around  our 
garden,  singing  like  happy  quails  freed  from 
the  nets  of  the  snarers,  and  I  hope  Heaven 
has  been  kind  not  to  let  any  one  but  my  sister 
hear  them.  Oh,  the  poor  signor  barone !  But 
what  is  one  to  do?" 

"Nitrite!"  I  cry,  "Nothing!"  And  then  I 
sing  it  in  my  heart  and  soul  until  they  almost 
burst  with  the  rush  of  the  joy  that  comes  upon 
me.  I  leap  down  the  steps  like  a  chamois  and 
throw  my  cap  into  the  air.  Don  Enrico  looks 
at  me  amazed.  I  come  to  my  senses  and  real- 
ize the  extraordinary  thing  I  am  doing.  Then 
I  leap  back  again  to  his  side  and  tell  him  the 
truth  —  I  cannot  help  it,  and  I  thank  Heaven 
it  is  so. 


XXIII 

I  SING  to  myself  all  the  way  home;  I 
have  to  be  careful  not  to  sing  to  every  one  I 
meet  on  the  way;  —  it  is  barely  escaping  being 
picked  out  as  a  lunatico,  and  I  know  I  shall 
burst  with  happiness  if  my  heart  keeps  leaping 
and  bounding  as  it  does  now.  And  yet  Don 
Enrico  merely  told  me  I  looked  respectable! 

"It  is  quite  an  honorable  surprise,  signore," 
said  he,  "you  will  admit  that  I  am  not  just 
prepared.  I  had  planned  nothing  but  the 
signore  barone,  and  so  you  see  I  must  think." 

"Oh,  think  it  just  as  I  want  it!"  I  cried,  like 
a  little  child  who  wants  to  go  to  play  and 
is  n't  sure  he  can,  "think  now!" 

Don  Enrico  took  my  hand.  "My  son," 
cried  he,  "may  heaven  bring  happiness  to  us 
all!"  and  then  we  parted. 

I  tremble  lest  I  devastate  my  garden  when 
I  reach  home  —  I  long  to  take  Luisa's  funny 
shears  and  cut  every  lovely  rose  and  rush 
with  my  arms  full  of  exquisite  flowers  to 

213 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

% 

Francesca  and  fling  them  into  her  arms.  I 
pass  the  shop  of  Luigi  Miccio,  and  wonder, 
as  I  do,  how  Francesca  would  like  the  lovely 
white  silk  scarf  in  the  window  —  I  never 
noticed  it  before.  Then  I  stare  in  at  Giuseppe 
Canfora's  window  and  wonder  if  he  has  shoes 
three  sizes  smaller  than  the  Russian  ones  I  see 
there,  smartly  adorned  with  silver  clasps. 

Then,  before  I  know  it,  I  find  myself  at 
Pietro  Vanni's.  He  insists  that  never  has 
mortal  shown  more  perfect  taste  than  I  am 
showing  this  very  instant  —  I  am  buying  a 
tiny  bonbonniere,  a  girdle  that  Miliano  Tar- 
ghetta  might  well  have  been  proud  to  claim 
as  his  masterpiece,  a  bracelet  that  Michel- 
angelo might  have  given  Vittoria  Colonna, 
had  his  hand  dared  as  much  as  his  heart,  and 
a  chain  that  might  have  hung  around  the 
neck  of  la  bella  Simonetta,  only  Heaven  has 
held  it  for  a  lovelier  throat. 

I  know  Pietro  is  not  so  interested  in  my 
perfect  taste  as  he  is  in  my  propensity  to 
remember  that  things  bought  are  to  be  paid 
for,  so  I  produce  the  proof  of  his  perspicacity, 
and  in  exchange  receive  the  precious  parcels. 
214 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

1 

"Buona  notte,  signore!"  Pietro  cries, — 
"Buona  riuscita!"  His  face  is  one  homily 
on  the  art  of  smiling. 

Then  it  is  I  realize  that  he  must  guess  I  have 
not  purchased  these  things  for  Luisa,  and  I  try- 
to  persuade  myself  that  he  will  imagine  I  am 
sending  them  to  convenient  aunts  in  America ! 
Alas!  I  know  better!  —  Alfredo  Carmine, 
maestro  delle  poste,  knows  every  package  that 
leaves  the  island,  and  Pietro  will  find  out,  for 
it  is  enough  to  have  seen  it  in  his  eyes  without 
his  having  wished  me  good  fortune  —  buona 
riuscita! 

Well,  who  cares  ?  I  don't !  I  run  along,  and 
only  stop  for  a  whiff  of  the  perfume  of  orange- 
blossoms  that  comes  across  my  path.  I  stop 
to  peek  through  the  gate  of  an  old  wall  that 
surrounds  a  little  grove  where  the  trees  are 
white  with  creamy  buds,  and  I  close  my  eyes 
while  I  breathe  the  fragrance  borne  to  me  by 
the  soft  winds  of  the  noon-time. 

As  I  open  them  again  a  laughing  face  looks 
into  mine,  —  I  stammer,  my  knees  shake,  I 
forget  to  put  my  cap  back  on  my  head,  I  drop 
the  parcels  clumsily,  and  am  terrified  lest  their 

215 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

precious  burdens  roll  out  of  the  flimsy  wrap- 
pers, and  I  blush  until  I  look  like  the  western 
sky  at  sunset. 

"How  do  you  do?"  I  say,  but  the  words 
sound  commonplace  and  to  my  rage  seem  to 
trickle  from  my  tongue  like  ice-water.  Oh,  ye 
heavenly  gods !  I  am  acting  like  an  idiot,  and 
there  she  stands,  —  Francesca!  —  alone! 

"Buon  giorno,  Signor  Allen." 

How  the  words  glide  over  her  sweet  lips! 
Oh  miserable,  happy  me !  And  yet  I  can  only 
blurt  forth  an  apology  for  peering  like  a 
monkey  into  some  one  else's  garden,  when  I 
should  be  on  my  way  to  my  own. 

She  laughs  —  now  I  know  what  the  music 
of  the  angels  of  heaven  is  like !  —  and  she  tells 
me  I  am  not  a  monkey.  I  love  her  for  dis- 
covering that;  —  Heaven  knows  I  feel  utterly 
ridiculous,  and  I  know  I  look  just  as  I  feel. 
I  have  no  business  to  stand  talking  a  minute, — 
it  would  shock  every  one  who  ever  pretended 
to  good  Caprese  manners  to  think  of  such  an 
outrageous  thing.  There  is  not  a  contessa 
sister  nor  an  uncle  in  sight,  —  I  have  had 

fully  three   minutes  to  salute  Francesca,  to 

216 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

beg  her  pardon  for  my  intrusion,  to  tip  my 
cap,  and  to  hurry  on  my  way,  so  she  can  open 
the  gate  and  hurry  on  hers  with  all  the  pro- 
priety Donna  Etichetta  has  prescribed  for  the 
social  ailments  of  the  best  families  of  Italy, 

^H 

and  yet  here  I  stand  doing  nothing ! 

Just  because  she  does  n't  seem  to  mind  — 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  side  of  the 
matter.  I  am  crimson  with  the  very  shame 
of  my  bad  manners  —  she  only  laughs  again. 

"My  sister  tells  me  you  will  come  to  Gia- 
cinto's  festa,  signore,"  she  cries,  "and  that 
will  be  very  nice,  —  very  nice!"  she  drawls 
out  the  "very  nice"  in  the  most  lovable, 
adorable  way,  and,  for  a  moment,  everything 
blurs  before  me;  then  with  a  thud  I  am  sen- 
sible again. 

"  It  was  dear  of  the  Contessa  to  wish  me  to 
come,  and  I  look  forward  to  it  with  such 
happiness  —  you  cannot  guess  how  happy  I 
shall  be!" 

"Ah,  but  perhaps  yes,  I  can!"  she  says, 
with  a  world  of  mischief  in  those  beloved  eyes, 
"for  we  shall  have  a  wonderful  pigeon  pie, 
my  uncle  himself  is  to  make  it!"  As  though 

217 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

my  happiness  were  to  be  found  under  a 
crust! 

Oh,  wicked  little  Francesca,  why  do  you 
tease  me !  Last  night  as  I  tossed  on  my  pillow 
I  thought  out  a  wonderful  dialogue,  —  just 
what  I  would  say  to  you,  if  Aphrodite  were 
kind  enough  to  let  the  Fates  bring  us  together, 
alone,  for  one  happy  moment,  and  then,  just 
what  you  would  say  to  me!  Now  the  words 
are  flown  with  the  speed  of  the  iynx  to  its 
nest,  and  I  can  only  cry  in  my  heart,  "I 
love  you!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!"  while  my 
lips  mock  me  with  other  words ! 

"I  have  just  left  your  uncle,  signorina,"  I 
hear  myself  saying;  "he  honored  me  with  an 
invitation  to  walk  with  him  to  the  Veruotto, 
and  I  have  spent  a  delightful  morning." 

"Si?  For  that  I  am  happy,  Signor  Allen!" 

"The  happiest  morning  I  have  ever  spent, 
signorina,  —  now!" 

She  looks  down  at  her  little  feet  and  drops 
a  rose  from  her  armful.  I  stoop  to  pick  it  up, 
and  she  stoops  to  anticipate  me,  but  I  am  too 
quick  for  her,  and  I  whisk  it  through  the 
trellis  of  the  gate  before  she  can  reach  it. 
218 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

We  both  laugh,  and  I  tuck  it  under  my  coat. 
If  I  have  expected  her  to  beg  for  it  coquet- 
tishly  I  am  mistaken.  Instead  her  great 
beautiful  eyes  become  grave,  she  looks  very 
startled,  —  I  had  not  guessed  she  could  look 
so  serious  as  that,  and  then,  with  her  hand 
upon  the  latch  she  looks  squarely  into  my 
waiting  eyes  and  says  slowly,  — 
"You  are  a  bold  robber,  signore." 
"Your  uncle  will  tell  you  I  am  a  faithful 
robber!  It  is  horribly  rude  for  me  to  have 
forced  you  to  stand  here  listening  to  me!  May 
Heaven  give  me  the  right  to  do  it  another 
time!  Forgive  me!"  And  I  lift  my  cap  and 
rush  away  lest  I  utterly  smash  the  tiny  ves- 
tige of  island  etiquette  I  have  left  unpul- 
verized. 

I  do  not  dare  to  turn  —  she  would  not  be 
looking  back  if  I  did,  and  as  I  hurry  along  I 
ask  myself:  "Will  her  uncle  tell  her  to-day? 
Or  will  he  wait  to  tell  her  to-morrow  ?  Or  will 
he  never  tell  her?"  How  the  gods  torment 
me!  I  reach  for  my  little  coral  rose,  oh  un- 
happy me!  It  is  gone!  I  have  lost  it!  In- 
stinctively I  turn,  and  plod  back  through  the 

219 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

dusty  path,  —  not  a  trace  of  it  can  I  find! 
I  go  back  to  the  little  gate;  it  is  not  there. 
Alas!  there  is  no  use  in  searching;  —  my  tiny 
treasure  is  like  a  poppy-seed  in  a  desert  —  I 
shall  not  find  it !  And  then  I  remember  the  rose 
I  have  placed  next  to  my  wildly  beating  heart 
—  perhaps  the  gods  have  given  it  to  me  as  a 
sign  from  heaven  after  all,  so  I  press  its  petals 
to  my  lips,  and  reflect,  "What  is  a  dead  piece 
of  coral  to  a  living  rose?"  And  I  run  on 
until  I  am  safe  in  the  seclusion  of  my  own 
little  garden,  where  there  is  not  a  rose  so 
lovely  as  the  one  I  hold  in  my  trembling 
hand.  I  bend  over  the  basin  of  the  fountain, 
and  I  start  as  I  see  my  reflection  there,  for  it 
is  as  though  it  were  of  some  one  I  have  never 
seen  before  —  of  all  that  is  good  in  me,  the 
dead  things  in  my  soul  forever  gone,  —  my 
own  true  self  at  last!  Did  she  see  that  when 
she  looked  into  my  eyes  ?  Then  a  faint  breeze 
ripples  the  waters  of  the  little  pool  and  I  turn 
away,  but  something  in  my  heart  tells  me  she 
did  see  that,  and  I  burst  out  singing  again,  and 
I  feel  that  I  could  have  challenged  Orpheus ! 


XXIV 

"E  COSA  che  mai  se  e  udito,  signore!"  cries 
Vincenzo,  when  he  catches  sight  of  me, 
feeding  the  greedy  little  goldfish  this  morn- 
ing. "It  is  an  unheard  of  thing,  signore,  to 
stuff  the  little  fish  so  much  —  they  will 
burst!" 

I  am  not  sure  but  that  Vincenzo  is  right,  so 
I  take  his  advice,  and  leave  a  lot  of  disap- 
pointed little  shimmering,  darting  specks  of 
gold  to  settle  their  threatened  digestions  as 
best  they  may  by  exercising  the  monotonous 
privileges  Fate  has  given  them. 

Vincenzo  takes  great  pride  in  our  goldfish, 
for  no  one  else  has  them,  and  Luisa  is  in 
mortal  terror  lest  they  become  lonesome  and 
die  of  broken  heart.  She  is  thinking  of  a 
land-bird  Vincenzo  once  brought  her  from 
Naples,  and  its  sad  history,  which  always 
brings  tears  to  her  eyes,  but  I  try  to  explain 
that  goldfish  are  truly  nomads,  if  one  has  the 
price  to  pay  for  their  migrations. 

221 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

But  if  we  are  proud  of  the  goldfish  we  are 
prouder  of  our  fountain;  there  is  not  another 
on  the  island.  That  is  because  we  had  the 
foresight  to  build  an  enormous  reservoir  in 
which  the  chance  rains  might  be  gathered. 
Luisa  is  always  saying  a  little  prayer  against 
its  bursting,  for  she  has  seen  a  frightening 
print  of  the  great  Deluge  somewhere,  and,  I 
imagine,  has  got  it  into  her  head  that  we 
could  all  be  swept  away  by  a  rush  of  waters 
unknown  since  Messer  Noah's  time.  Once  it 
sprung  a  tiny  leak  and  Luisa  rushed  to  the 
house-top,  but  Vincenzo  soon  mended  the 
damage,  and  then  ordered  the  panic-stricken 
Luisa  down  from  her  vantage  as  sternly  as 
ever  Messer  Bluebeard  gave  command  to 
Fatima.  I  pointed  out  to  Vincenzo  that  Luisa 
should  not  have  been  scolded,  and  rebuked 
him  severely. 

"That,  signore,"  he  replied,  "is  because 
my  padrone  has  never  known  the  happiness 
of  being  a  married  man.  You  must  never  let 
a  woman  have  her  own  way  about  any  notion 
that  comes  into  her  head;  if  you  do  you  are 
lost.  Ecco!  I  have  to  scold  Luisa, — it  keeps 
222 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

us  very  happy,  —  the  signore  knows  we  are 
most  happy,  —  it  is  perfect!" 

Jt  is  perfect,  and  as  I  would  do  nothing  in 
the  world  to  upset  the  equilibrium  of  that 
which  makes  such  perfect  happiness,  and 
such  happy  perfectness,  I  ceased  my  scolding 
and  left  Time  and  Vincenzo  to  comfort 
Luisa. 

How  the  hours  drag!  I  have  been  up  since 
dawn.  I  have  tried  to  write,  have  been  furi- 
ous with  myself  to  find  that  I  had  a  ravenous 
appetite  for  breakfast,  which  is  rather  humil- 
iating to  discover  when  one  is  in  love,  espe- 
cially when  one  has  imagined  himself  a  poet. 
No,  I  am  not  a  poet;  I  decide  I  cannot  be  a 
poet.  I  try  to  write  a  sonnet  to  Francesca, 
but  it  sounds  absurd.  I  try  another  upon  her 
beautiful  eyes,  but  I  tear  it  up  in  a  fury;  — 
not  one  word  in  the  whole  world  is  good 
enough  to  mingle  with  the  poesy  of  her  fair 
name,  so  I  leave  it  to  Heaven,  and  listen  as 
the  gods  breathe  sweet  words  to  my  ears 
which  no  one  else  can  hear. 

I  pace  up  and  down  the  walks  of  my 
garden,  and  gather  bouquets  for  every  room 

223 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

in  my  casa.  Never  before  have  the  flowers 
seemed  so  lovely,  and  I  marvel  at  their  mul- 
titude. 

Then  I  sit  down  under  the  cooling  shade  of 
the  vine-clad  pergola  and  look  out  over  the 
mass  of  color  more  beautiful  than  the  mosaics 
of  San  Marco.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  rest  my 
head  upon  my  hands,  and  as  I  sit,  wrapped  in 
the  thought  that  weaves  itself  into  the  very 
fibre  of  my  being,  I  seem  to  see  her  standing 
there  by  the  tall-growing  roses,  which  she 
reaches  up  to  gather,  as  a  goddess  reaches  for 
the  roses  of  Igdrasyl.  And  I  seem  to  see  her 
stoop  to  kiss  a  little  child  toddling  along  by 
her  side.  He  stretches  up  his  baby  arms.  An 
older  boy  comes  bounding  into  the  garden 
and  drags  him  away  for  a  romp.  She  turns  to 
me,  smiling,  and  holds  forth  her  arm,  —  and 
then  it  all  vanishes. 

A  little  shuffling  sound  startles  me  out  of 
my  vision. 

"A  thousand  pardons!"  I  cry,  jumping  to 
my  feet,  to  find  Don  Enrico  standing  before 
me,  a  smile  upon  his  dear  old  face.  "I  have 
been  waiting  your  coming  impatiently,  and 

224 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Time  seemed  to  delight  in  dragging  the  hour, 
—  yet  here  you  find  me  dreaming!" 

"There  could  not  be  a  fairer  spot  on  earth 
for  beautiful  dreams,  my  son!"  Don  Enrico 
answers,  taking  my  hand.  Then  it  is  that  I 
see  it  all  written  in  his  eyes.  My  heart  bounds 
with  joy,  my  eyes  flood  with  tears  of  happi- 
ness. I  fling  my  arms  around  him  and  dance 
him  around  the  path  as  though  we  were 
whirling  dervishes,  and  when  I  stop  for  breath, 
I  see  Vincenzo  and  Luisa  peering  forth  with 
blanched  faces,  uncertain  what  they  ought  to 
do,  for  of  course  they  think  I  have  gone  stark 
mad. 

Don  Enrico  takes  me  by  the  arm  and 
quotes  Solomon,  Dante,  St.  Basil,  and  The- 
ocritus in  extenuation  of  my  happiness,  as 
though  there  needed  to  be  any. 

"For  I  did  not  dream,  my  son,"  he  tells 
me,  "that  our  little  Francesca  has  been  fall- 
ing in  love  too,  and  that  is  just  what  she  has 
been  doing.  It  was  very  wicked  of  her,  before 
she  sent  the  poor  barone  away,  and  I  must 
scold  her  for  that,  because  Heaven  is  dis- 
pleased when  one  of  its  children  forgets  a 
225 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

duty.  She  shall  take  a  lamp  of  silver  to  hang 
before  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady  by  the  rock 
near  San  Antonio,  and  then  I  shall  not  scold 
her  again!" 

We  are  by  the  little  alcove  of  ilex-trees, 
where  a  lovely  pedestal  holds  a  little  statue  of 
Eros.  I  drop  on  my  knees  and  I  ask  Uncle 
Enrico's  blessing.  Vincenzo  and  Luisa  drop 
on  their  knees,  too,  and  I  see  them  crossing 
themselves,  for  they  think  something  strange 
must  be  happening  to  me.  Faithful  children 
of  this  happy  isle!  No  longer  can  they  bear 
the  suspense,  so  they  rush  over  to  me,  and 
with  tears  in  their  eyes  ask  with  choking, 
frightened  voices,  — 

"Oh  padrone,  kindest-of-all,  tell  your  poor 
Vincenzo  and  your  poor  Luisa!  We  break  in 
the  heart!" 

And  I  tell  them! 


XXV 

ONE  would  never  have  guessed  the  inherent 
qualities  of  mastery  that  have  lurked  in  the 
fathoms  of  Luisa's  temperament,  which  is  to 
say  that  good  Vincenzo  has  betaken  himself 
with  his  philosophy  for  a  stroll,  ostensibly  to 
the  Castello,  but  in  reality,  I  fancy,  with  the 
desire  to  withdraw,  unmolested,  for  reflec- 
tion upon  the  ways  of  woman. 

Indeed,  Luisa's  unbounded  delight  at  the 
import  of  the  confidence  to  them  in  the  garden 
this  morning  has  taken  soaring  wing  to  height 
of  eagle's  flight  in  the  impressive  vindication 
she  has  just  delivered  to  Vincenzo  of  her  claim 
to  the  gift  of  discovering  charms  that  influ- 
ence the  vagarious  gite  of  Messer  Cupid. 

"The  signore  himself  will  find  it!"  she 
cries.  "It  is  there  tucked  in  the  folds  of  the 
canopy  over  his  letto,  —  just  one  little  husk 
of  the  aglio  and  a  sprig  of  thefiore  azzur'  from 
the  blessed  shrine  of  La  Vergine  delle  Rocce. 
I  hid  it  there  a  week  ago  in  spite  of  Vincenzo!" 
227 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Did  I  not  declare  it?"  she  cried,  turning 
triumphantly  to  him  after  I  had  told  her. 
"Who  now  knows  something,  eh?  Who  now 
must  keep  still  and  be  told  her  most  excellent 
wisdom  is  but  foolish  silliness,  all  because  she 
has  a  husband  more  doubting  than  the  good 
San  Tomaso  the  Don  Padre  preached  about 
last  Sunday!" 

In  consequence  of  the  moral  support  happy 
events  have  given  Luisa's  argument,  Vin- 
cenzo's  superiority  —  as  displayed  in  the 
kitchen  but  a  day  since — has,  for  the  moment, 
taken  mercurial  descent.  I  doubt  not  that  his 
views  on  the  subjugation  of  woman  to  her 
proper  sphere  (as  defined  by  man)  will  come 
in  for  a  temporary  readjustment.  Naturally 
there  came  to  him  the  temptation  to  curb 
Luisa's  enthusiasm  over  himself,  but  I  think 
he  saw  that  the  excitements  of  the  occasion 
carry  some  excuses,  so  he  lets  Luisa  off  gently, 
and  the  twinkling  eye  of  his  padrone  tried  to 
convey  to  him  the  Italian  equivalent  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  immortal  advice: 
"Be  soople,  Davie,  in  things  immaterial." 

While  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  Luisa 
228 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

does  not  exhibit  the  slightest  particle  of  jeal- 
ousy, but,  instead,  is  all  joyfulness  that  when 
the  orange  trees  shall  have  blossomed  again 
she  will  have  a  dear  padrona  to  plan  house- 
keeping for,  there  is  yet  lingering  about  her 
industrious  bustling,  this  afternoon,  the  little 
half-regret  which  one  always  might  guess  lay 
in  the  sighing  of  queen-mothers  at  coronations. 
Still,  I  comfort  Luis  a,  she  is  to  remain  regina- 
cucinaria,  for  I  have  come  to  learn  much  of 
the  ways  of  Caprese  households. 

I  can  see  that  Luisa  is  taking  a  mental  sur- 
vey of  the  premises. 

"Thank  the  good  San  Niccolo,"  she  says, 
"the  house  is  large  enough.  And  the  blessed 
San  Francesco  could  spend  a  whole  day  in  our 
beautiful  garden  with  his  little  sermons,  and 
then  not  get  around  to  half  of  the  flowers!" 
Then  she  adds  reflectively,  "There  will  be 
plenty  of  room  for  them  to  play  there  when 
the  time  comes." 

"The  saints?"  I  ask  her  innocently. 

"Of  course  not!"  she  cries,  laughing  at  my 
ignorance,  "who  could  I  be  meaning  but  the 
blessed  bambini  my  kindest  padrone  and  my 

229 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

lovely,  new  after-while-padrona  will  have, 
to  make  this  into  a  paradiso  vero  for  their 
Luisa  and  their  Vincenzo  to  be  so  proud  of!" 
And  I  have  to  blush  at  the  stupidity  of  my 
not  having  looked  more  particularly  into  those 
matters  that  appertain  to  the  patronage  of 
such  saintly  ones  as  the  most  benign  Bishop 
of  Myra. 

"Yes,"  Luisa  goes  on  to  instruct  me,  "it 
is  the  good  San  Niccolo  who  very  especially 
takes  care  of  the  bambini.  He  is  very  good 
to  good  little  ones  on  his  festa  eve,  but  let 
wicked,  naughty  ragazzi  look  out  for  the 
sharp  little  switches  of  the  poplar  he  knows 
well  how  to  handle,  too!"  At  which  words  I 
catch  her  with  a  fleeting,  guilty  look  of  remi- 
niscence, which,  however,  she  banishes  with 
the  observation,  "Still  they  do  not  always 
mean  it,  and  San  Niccolo  is  sometimes  a  bit 
too  hard  on  them." 

"Well,  Luisa,"  I  say,  "  I  hope  San  Niccolo 
will  be  kind  to  us,  and  not  too  busy  to  visit 
our  little  garden.  Perhaps  sometimes  he  will 
feel  lonesome,  and  then  he  will  come  as  you 
say." 

230 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Yes,  and  we  must  always  leave  a  little 
lighted  candle  for  him  in  the  church  under  the 
hill  of  San  Michele."  Then  she  cries,  "Oh,  it 
is  very  wonderful,  signore,  how  he  gets  about, 
and  there  never  was  a  better  saint !  Don  Mar- 
tino  said  so,  and  Don  Onofrio  said  that  the 
first  day  San  Niccolo  was  born  the  good  saint 
stood  right  up  in  the  little  tub  which  his 
blessed  grandmother  was  bathing  him  in,  and 
that  he  crossed  his  hands  to  show  that  he  was 
giving  thanks  to  the  dear  God  for  having 
brought  him  into  the  world.  Then  Don  Ono- 
frio said  also  that  no  sooner  did  San  Niccolo 
know  what  it  was  to  feed  than  he  knew  what 
it  was  to  fast.  Don  Onofrio  read  it  in  a  book. 
Do  you  believe  it,  signore?" 

Though  I  am  startled  at  Luisa's  unexpected 
question  I  answer,  "I  do  believe  it,  Luisa !" 
and  I  find  I  have  no  doubt  about  it;  mine, 
like  the  good  Blougram's,  must  be,  —  "  Whole 
faith  or  none!" 

Quite  convinced,  Luisa  expresses  great  sat- 
isfaction. "And  you  must  bring  them  up  to 
be  very  pious,  signore;  perhaps,  if  there  are 
very  many,  one  of  them  will  grow  up  to  be 

231  ; 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

a  cardinal.   Oh,  I  hope  there  will  be  very 
many!" 

Somehow  I  find  the  idea  rather  entertain- 
ing. I  have  never  met  the  father  of  a  cardinal, 
and  I  am  wondering  what  unique  privileges 
the  distinction  would  carry  with  it.  There- 
fore I  consult  Luisa  on  the  subject.  Alas,  she 
can  give  me  no  dependable  information,  al- 
though she  ventures  to  suggest  that  the  fa- 
thers of  cardinals  are  a  class  of  saints  all  to 
themselves.  A  very  proper  and  commendable 
projection  upon  Luisa's  part,  to  which  I  lend 
the  devout  encouragement  of  hoping  it  is  so. 

"It  will  be  a  very  long  time,  perhaps, 
Luisa,"  I  say,  thinking  of  my  beatification. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  signore! "  cries  Luisa,  think- 
ing of  nothing  of  the  sort.  "Why,  only  yester- 
day the  little  Conte  Giacinto  was  nothing  at 
all  but  a  sweet  breath  upon  the  lips  of  the 
angels  of  heaven,  and,  eccol  now  he  is  the 
signore's  camerata.  Don't  you  see,  signore, 
these  little  years  will  be  flying  by  like  the 
swift-winged  aghirone!"  What  a  chase  we 
are  both  giving  Messer  Time,  and  I  laugh  at 
the  merry  thought  of  it. 

232 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"You  may  laugh,  signore!"  Luisa  cries, 
"but  it  is  true!" 

"Of  course  it  is  true!"  I  joyfully  admit, 
"and  that  is  just  why  I  am  laughing.  To  find 
the  pleasant  truth,  —  that  ought  to  make  one 
very  happy,  and  to  hear  it  from  the  lips  of 
so  excellent  a  sibyl  —  well,  Luisa,  you  shall 
have  a  new  gown  for  thefesta  of  San  Gennaro 
in  the  autumn,  and  Vincenzo  shall  have  a  new 
giacchetto!  J: 

While  Luisa  does  not  understand  a  word 
about  sibyls,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  her 
clear  perception  of  the  reference  to  a  new 
gown,  while  I  am  glad  to  see  she  will  not  be- 
grudge Vincenzo  the  jacket. 

"The  signore  is  always  too  good!"  she  cries, 
with  tears  of  delight  in  her  great  brown  eyes, 
"and  oh,  what  a  fine  wedding  there  will  be!" 

It  is  plain  to  see  that  Luisa  cannot,  even 
yet,  recover  sufficiently  to  descend  from  the 
spiritual  to  the  material.  Even  the  promise 
of  the  gown  has  not  led  her  away  from  her 
excitement  over  the  morning's  happenings. 
;  I  light  my  cigarette  and  finish  my  coffee  and 
step  forth  to  meet  Vincenzo,  who  has  just  re- 

233 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

turned,  a  parcel  of  mail  in  his  hand,  for  which 
he  has  stopped  at  the  post-office  on  his  way 
back.  His  face  betrays  a  smile  of  content- 
ment —  all  the  clouds  have  vanished. 

"I  saw  her,  signore!"  he  confides,  "there  in 
San  Michele's  little  church.  She  was  kneeling 
to  say  a  little  prayer  before  Our  Lady  of  the 
Roses."  We  walk  to  the  terrace  silently.  As 
we  approach  we  hear  Luisa  singing  the  vol- 

tata  of — 

"  Tu  nee  s?  nnata  co  le  rose  mmano," 

but  with  a  timbre  that  always  reminds  me  of 
Azucena.  At  the  sound  Vincenzo  pauses. 
Then  a  look  of  resolution  passes  to  his  hand- 
some eyes  and  he  says,  — 

"I  do  not  know,  signore  mio,  what  has  got 
into  that  head  of  Luisa's  to-day!  She  is  all 
set  up,  just  because  what  she  said  about  the 
signore  baron  has  come  true.  Of  course  it  has 
come  true.  I  knew  it  would  come  true,  but 
any  one  could  see  that,  only  I  did  not  say  so; 
that  would  have  been  to  humor  her,  and  have 
I  not  already  told  my  signore  that  a  woman 
must  never  be  allowed  to  have  her  own  way 
about  the  notions  that  come  into  her  head?'\ 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

I  refrain  from  comment,  for  I  have  learned 
that  mixing  up  in  the  management  of  Vin- 
cenzo's  inmost  affairs  is  futile,  and  I  am  not 
surprised,  when  he  enters,  to  hear  the  singing 
interrupted.  However,  as  it  begins  again,  this 
time  with  Vincenzo's  lovely  rich  voice  blend- 
ing with  the  harmonious  melody  in  a  way 
that  would  convert  even  Miss  Winterspoon 
from  her  musical  heresy,  could  she  but  hear 
it  now,  I  smile  to  myself,  and  turn  to  reflect 
upon  the  ways  of  men. 


XXVI 

WE  are  all  sitting  around  Mrs.  Delmar's 
little  tea-table,  with  the  rippling  sea  fifteen 
hundred  feet  below  us.  One  cannot  help 
wondering  what  old  Tai-tsou  would  have  said 
had  ever  he  dreamed  that  the  Celestial 
Kingdom  would  come  to  be  lending  comfort 
to  the  children  of  the  Caesars  in  this  eyrie 
nook. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Allen,  I  think  he  would 
have  deserted  the  pays  de  porcelaine  for  our 
island,  if  ever  he  could  have  dreamed  of  any- 
thing so  lovely  as  it  is  to-day.  Look  at  our 
beloved  Monte  Solaro  —  could  anything  be 
more  perfectly  like  a  wonderfully  carved  lump 
of  exquisite  jade?  What  Chinaman  could 
resist  it!" 

"Or  what  Mandarin,  Mrs.  Delmar,  ever 
grew  such  marvelous  fruit!"  I  answer,  laugh- 
ing, for  there,  caught  in  the  emerald-leaved 
branches  of  the  tree  in  the  courtyard,  gleams 
a  great  yellow  ball  like  a  pear,  at  which 

236 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

a  little  bird  has  just  picked  futilely,  to  fly 
away  astonished. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  cries,  laughing  as  she  looks 
over  the  parapet,  "it  is  my  lovely  golden 
thread!  How  could  it  have  gotten  down 
there!" 

"There  is  magic  in  everything  you  touch!" 
I  declare,  taking  up  a  wonderful  silken  scarf 
which  she  has  been  embroidering. 

"It  is  for  your  Francesca,  Signer  Pirato! 
You  see  I  must  call  you  that,  for  you  swooped 
down  on  us  and  have  stolen  the  heart  of  our 
little  girl." 

"But  that  is  n't  fair,  is  it,  Uncle  Enrico? 
Did  n't  it  belong  to  me  ?  Can  a  man  steal  his 
own  ? " 

Uncle  Enrico  laughs,  and  shakes  his  head. 

"The  ways  of  youth  are  beyond  the  ken  of 
man  —  even  Solomon  stopped  before  he  got 
that  far!  But  you  have  descended  upon  us, 
my  son,  in  half  the  time  ever  the  Barbarossa 
would  have  taken  to  clamber  up  these  steep 
hillsides!  And  your  eyes  look  straight  into 
our  eyes,  and  we  can  deny  you  nothing!" 

"Oh,  it  is  too  lovely  for  anything!"  cries 
237 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

Miss  Winterspoon,  who  until  now  has  been 
nibbling  in  her  daintiest  manner  at  a  tiny 
wafer  of  vanilla,  while  her  eyes  devour  the 
toast  that  has  not  yet  reached  us.  "You 
know,  Mrs.  Delmar,  it  is  positively  an  idyl — 
how  you  blush,  Mr.  Allen! — and  you  are  so 
young;  is  n't  it  quite  too  lovely  —  and  roman- 
tic!" She  sighs  like  the  breath  of  morning 
winds  passing  through  the  leaves  of  the 
pomegranate,  and  into  her  eyes  there  creeps 
the  memoried  expression  of  something  Time 
himself  may  almost  have  forgotten.  Then  she 
jumps  up  and  kisses  Francesca  impulsively. 
"Oh,  you  will  be  so  happy!"  she  cries. 

"Ah,  Signorina  Winterspoon,  I  am  happy!" 
Francesca  answers,  giving  my  hand  a  little 
squeeze  and  looking  into  my  eyes  with  her 
joyful  happy  own,  "I  did  not  know  there  was 
anything  in  the  whole  world  that  could  mean 
such  happiness,"  she  says,  simply. 

"There  would  not  be,  dear  child,  if  the 
prince  or  the  princess  were  another!" 

Ah,  Miss  Winterspoon!  How  little  has 
the  world  guessed  what  sorrows  your  heart 
has  throbbed  out,  alone  and  uncomforted, 

238 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

under  that  funny  little  mantilla  that  makes 
you  look  like  a  hickory-nut  doll ! 

I  turn  toward  her  gratefully,  and  my 
heart  glows  with  joyous  pride  as  I  see  my 
beloved  Francesca  take  one  of  the  crimson 
roses  from  her  silver  girdle  to  hand  to  her. 
Miss  Winterspoon  buries  her  poor,  peaked, 
funny  face  in  its  fragrance,  and,  as  she  does, 
a  tear  drops  upon  a  petal,  glistens,  and  is 
gone. 

Only  Francesca  and  I  see  it. 

Then  little  Giacinto  slides  over  to  her  side, 
for  he  loves  her.  She  has  taught  him  to  call 
her  "Auntie  Winterspoon,";  and  although 
they  are  very  hard  words  for  his  little  Latin 
lips  to  lisp,  I  think  it  makes  her  very  happy. 
He  reaches  for  the  chain  around  his  neck  to 
show  her  the  little  coral  butterfly,  and  then, 
as  though  a  sudden  memory  of  unexpected 
things  had  come  to  him,  he  drops  it  and  looks 
questioningly  at  his  Contessa  Mamma,  who 
remembers,  too,  what  happened,  that  day  on 
the  landing,  when  the  music  stopped  and 
the  [lamentations  began,  and  to  just  what 
an  extent  little  coral  butterflies  will  protect 

239 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

little  runaway  boys  when  they  have  been  gone 
an  especially  long  time!  Anyway  Giacinto 
seems  to  put  faith  in  the  butterfly,  for  he 
returns  to  it  and  trots  over  to  show  me  what  a 
faithful  custodian  he  has  been.  I  give  him  a 
kiss,  and  the  little  bundle  of  chocolates  that 
I  have  had  tucked  away  in  my  pocket.  Then 
it  is  that  his  politeness  is  put  to  a  test,  for 
his  Contessa  Mamma  gives  him  a  little  sign, 
and  he  generously  offers  one  of  his  sweets  to 
each  of  us.  Of  course  we  decline,  to  his  im- 
mense relief,  except  Miss  Winterspoon,  who 
declares :  — 

"He  is  quite  too  dear  and  quaint  for  any- 
thing! I  couldn't  refuse  anything  from  his 
darling  chubby  little  hands!"  On  what  thin 
ice  has  she  glided ! 

Suddenly  the  afternoon  bells  begin  their 
vigorous  chiming,  as  though  the  gods  were 
reaching  down  from  Parnassus  to  make  music 
for  the  well-beloved  among  mortals,  and  Miss 
Winterspoon  jumps  to  her  feet  to  tell  us  it  is 
shocking  late  and  she  must  be  on  her  way  to 
pay  a  visit  of  state  to  a  Crown  Princess  who 
spends  two  months  of  every  year  on  the  other 

240 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

side  of  the  mountain,  and  saves  two  months 
of  her  royal  income  for  winter  uses  by  do- 
ing it. 

"I  would  not  dream  of  going,  you  know," 
she  confesses,  "only  my  Aunt  Alexandra 
would  never  forgive  me  if  I  did  n't,  Mrs. 
Delmar,  —  and  one  has  to  keep  up  all  sorts 
of  things  for  the  family,  Don  Enrico!" 

Then  I  escort  her  down  to  the  garden  gate, 
for  I  have  learned  that  the  agile  lady's  de- 
scents are  precarious  if  unattended.  As  she 
bids  me  good-bye  she  whispers: — 

"They  never  would  have  been  happy,  Mr. 
Allen,  never!  It  is  quite  too  dreadful  to  say 
it,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  load  it  is  off 
my  mind  to  think  it  is  to  be  you  and  not  the 
Baron!  Really,  though  I  have  never  told  it 
to  any  one,  I  was  quite  upset  the  day  we  all 
met  on  the  cliff  path,  for,  incredible  as  it 
would  seem  of  any  gentleman,  and  especially 
when  we  were  in  the  midst  of  Schopenhauer, 
the  Baron  actually  tweeked  my  arm!" 

Of  course  I  am  shocked  at  the  Baron's 
outrageous  conduct,  but  I  tell  Miss  Winter- 
spoon  men  lose  their  heads  sometimes,  and 

241 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

with  a  giddy  little  protest  she  cries  good-bye 
as  I  wave  her  addio. 

"Did  you  ever  lose  anything,  mio  caro?" 
Francesca  asks  me  when  I  am  by  her  side 
again. 

"My  heart,  carina!"  I  cry. 

"Nothing  more?"  —  the  little  mischievous 
look  comes  into  her  eyes  again,  but  I  pretend 
to  be  very  solemn. 

"Only  my  temper,  sweetheart,  when  I 
found  Vincenzo  had  nearly  forgotten  to  take 
you  the  roses  this  morning." 

"Oh,  but  he  did  n't  forget,  caro  mio,  and  it 
was  wicked  of  you  to  be  impatient!  Wait  till 
Uncle  Enrico  invents  penances  for  you!"  — 
she  is  thinking  of  the  lamp  to  Our  Lady  near 
the  rock  of  San  Antonio.  "Did  n't  you  lose 
something  else?"  For  a  moment  a  little  shade 
of  disappointment  creeps  into  her  face,  for  I 
keep  shaking  my  head.  Then  I  cry: — 

"Something  pink,  carina  ?" 

"Un9  fiore?"  her  eyes  are  full  of  mischief 
again. 

"A  rose?" 

"All  beautiful  coral  on  a  little  chain?", 
242 


The  Contessa' s  Sister 

"But  no,"  I  cry,  myself  disappointed  this 
time,  "it  was  not  on  a  little  chain." 

"But  it  is  on  a  little  chain  now,  caro  mio!" 
she  cries,  and  Francesca  pulls  a  little  chain 
from  her  neck,  where,  nestling  there,  I  behold 
the  coral  rose  I  had  lost. 

"You  bold  robber!"  I  cry,  as  I  take  her  in 
my  arms  and  smother  her  with  kisses. 

"  Unafidele  !  "  she  laughs,  when  I  let  her  free, 
and  then,  with  a  funny  little  pucker  on  her 
lips,  "Cattivo!"  she  cries,  "ecco!  See  how  you 
have  shocked  Uncle  Enrico  and  my  sister!" 

Now,  though  Uncle  Enrico  tells  us  we  have 
utterly  smashed  the  last  fragment  of  Caprese 
etiquette  to  bits,  the  Contessa  gives  Fran- 
cesca a  little  kiss,  and  Mrs.  Delmar,  with  a 
merry  laugh,  calls  us  her  blessed  children,  and 
comforts  Uncle  Enrico's  perplexity  with  sweet 
philosophy. 

"You  and  I  must  not  forget,  Don  Enrico," 
she  says,  "that  the  wiser  one  grows  the  more 
he  learns!" 

"And  then,"  cries  the  Contessa,  "he  learns 
that  he  has  not  learned  anything  at  all!"  and 
she  playfully  pinches  Francesca's  cheek. 
243 


The  Contessa's  Sister 

"Ah,  that  is  true,  my  children,"  Don  Enrico 
admits,  giving  me  a  little  pat  of  forgiveness, 
"and  I  have  seen  full  seventy  years;  —  there 
is  no  true  knowledge  but  youth's  own  wis- 
dom!" Then  he  lifts  Giacinto  tenderly  upon 
his  knee  that  he  too  may  look  out  into  the 
primrose  sunset. 


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